


Capable of Being Terrible.

by idgit_with_a_fidget



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Drug Use, F/M, M/M, Murder, Slow Build, Triggers, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:06:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idgit_with_a_fidget/pseuds/idgit_with_a_fidget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I did it to protect you! I...I need you. More than you know. Why can't you see that?!" </i><br/> </p><p>Grantaire has a thing for the boy across the hall. He's passionate, beautiful, brilliant, and most of all: bright, and all Grantaire wants is to be recognised by him in order to be saved from the ever enclosing darkness. But are his attempts to ensure the friendship with the political student going a bit too far? And are there dangerous consequences to rejection?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Times

_The first time it happened, it was accident._

_Almost._

**

He lived across the hall. Grantaire had lost count of the hours he'd spent leaning against the door of his own apartment and gazing at the apartment opposite through the spyhole, forgetting everything but the noise of his own breathing increase in rate to a hot tremble in his own ears. He was watching for the student. The one with the blonde hair, the one with the bright eyes, the one who left scalds on the carpet under his feet when he walked. 

Enjolras.

Mere metres of grotty, peeling flooring separated them. And yet it felt like he was lightyears away on a completely different planet, waving the flag for a different world, hollering out in a different language. Grantaire didn't dare make the walk. He didn't have the courage, not yet. Once or twice he made the fateful stagger whilst drunk, but only Combeferre answered and walked him right back the way he came and lay him to sleep on the sofa. He dreamed he saw Enjolras in the background draped in tricolour, but his face was a frown and his voice was nonsensical warbling. He just watched and waited in the mornings for the politics student to leave the flat and make his way down the 43 stairs to the main lobby, then through the rusting doors and down the street to the bus-stop. It took him approximately four minutes, depending on the speed his roommate, Combeferre, a medicine major with an interest in philosophy, took to tie his inexpensive loafers in his usual double knot. The bus would pull into the pavement at 08:45am, they'd pay their five euro fares and then they would vanish down the first corner on the left, towards the university building. Grantaire observed from his kitchen window, resting his chin on the heel of his rough-skinned palm, idly flicking the bristles of a tattered paintbrush as he concentrated. The bus would take twenty minutes. Walking took nearer forty at a general pace. Running was obviously faster, taxis were too expensive. Combeferre did cycle once, but Grantaire wasn't interested in him. Once he made sure they had turned the corner, Grantaire would then tie his own shoes and zip his jacket and head down to catch another bus, this one making sure he was at least ten minutes late for the first lecture. He had learned not to follow straight away, not to be a shadow or a stalker. He had to remain casual; he wanted to appear friendly, not creepy. Not at all. 

He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment he grew attracted to Enjolras. It just occurred to him one day. Like an idea, or the sudden overnight blooming of a beautiful rose. He had moved in across the hall several months after Grantaire -months he would rather forget, and were soon forgotten- and he frequented the same cafe Grantaire had worked in for a measly three euro an hour wage. He had a small group of friends with similar interests, and Grantaire flitted in and out of their meetings, listening in to their conversations, gathering gossip and topics he stored in a mental bank of conversation starters in the vain hope a day would come when they were together alone and he could finally seem impressive. However, their relationship was no more than one sided schoolboy crush on Grantaire's part. They were opposites, like their apartments. Enjolras preferred governmental studies, good grades and the securing of a brilliant career. Grantaire was more interested in wine and parties, only concentrating on his art course at the last minute. He had the talent, he just 'didn't apply himself', according to the scrawls left by teachers on his report cards. He'd read that phrase on those cards every year without fail; the annual assessment of his character. At first he had doubted if that assumption was true; nonetheless, over time he adopted it as his main personality trait, and he gained a reputation. He had been given a place in university by chance, a lucky fluke. It was conditional and currently flimsy; he was seriously risking being kicked out; he failed essays, he skipped deadlines, he either fell asleep at his station or arrived drunk or still reeling from a high, but that did not provide him with any motivation. He lacked inspiration, especially when his object of fascination wasn't nearby. The number of times he had caught himself doodling the curls and swirls of blonde hair or the almond strokes of blue eyes in the margins of textbooks subconsciously would be unnerving to the passer-by. Grantaire, however, took it as a sign he had finally found the muse he had been searching for. He was the angel from the stories his mother used to slur. His cause; the reason to become someone respectable, to become a new man. 

Enjolras was everything bright in the world, his sun on bleak mornings, his star across the desert, the name he mumbled in the dark. 

Apollo. 

He latched onto that light, grabbed and clung on like a man grasping a boat’s mast during a seastorm, willing all of the strength he did not have to stay afloat and not sink under. He fed off of the intelligence, drank in the passion and the fire that burned away inside of the man’s heart, sucked up the strength and the vigour and vitality, as though he too could experience that same force by absorbing those powers. He became dependant on seeing his face, desperate for hearing his words, just plain glimpses from afar, to calm his frantic insides, to keep himself sane, to make him afraid of turning back into the dark. He chased after his taunts and his jibes, he prodded for shouts and yells and swears. His harsh words were incantations, letting Grantaire know that Enjolras had an opinion of him, and that his emotion was still fiery. The cold shoulders and disdainful glowers set his chest fluttering and his pulse racing. It hurt, those actions, but it was a soothing and reassuring sign that he was living and that he still existed, even in hate. He could still feel, he could still be a person. He had yet to vanish completely into the dark.

Enjolras was ice, and the ice burned Grantaire. 

Enjolras was a bulb and Grantaire was a moth that got too close.

**

"You're becoming a stalker, R," Courfeyrac muttered out the side of his mouth. 

Satellite, Grantaire corrected in his mind. He was gazing down at his phone. His features reflected in the black mirror. He wasn’t beautiful. He was an aging Dionysus, slowly fading away. His neck ached. His lips were dry. 

"Am not," he protested. 

They were leaning against the stairwell inside the university. The corridors were desolate. Only preppy girls and lazy boys with errands to other professors crossed their paths. Grantaire was running his thumb over his phone, looking slightly dishevelled. Indigo smudges created creases under his eyes. He was skipping class. Courfeyrac was waiting for his flatmate Jehan to come out of an exam, ready with a paper-wrapped book of poems by William Blake for either emotional support or congratulations, depending on the outcome. He already had a copy, but it was too shiny. Courfeyrac had traipsed across town looking in squashed book stores for a properly read one, with near intelligible markings in the margins and somewhat suspicious stains and tears on the cover. It had a sense of personality. Grantaire had made a face at it. A tattered man looking at a tattered book and knowing it had more life and more love than he. 

"You are. I know, we all know, actually, that you only come to our meets to ogle at Enj's ass," he said it so casually. "Don't get me wrong, we like you, you're a right laugh sometimes, but... I dunno. You should come to them more often, for the right reasons. Don't leave us on our own with him, at least."

"Do I irritate him?" Grantaire asked suddenly, blurting a little. There was a tiredness in his voice. He slept little. He imagined he could hear the clangs of the water pipes across the hall and that was his lullaby. 

"Mmm. Yeah."

"Oh."

"You should drink less."

"You should criticise my life less."

Courf smirked. "I'm almost hurt."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. They breathed in unison. Courf was warm, but his sweat was cold. 

"What are you worried about?" Grantaire asked, pushing his dark hair from his face. It tickled his nose.

Courf jerked his chin upwards, meaning the classroom above them. "Jehan," he replied quietly. 

"But he's good at English lit. He actually studies. He does well. More than I can say for myself."

"He can almost recite the entire Odyssey by heart word for word. Performed it to me and Marius yesterday at dinner. Nearly slugged Marius in the arm when he started to look the slightest bit disinterested. That guy's got a punch in 'im, don't let the fancy words fool you." Courf smiled softly. "Yeah. I know. Still."

“Is there another meet tonight?”

Courf raised his brow, speculating. “Yeah. Are you coming? To watch him walk his talk?”

“Might pitch in.”

Courf laughed. His laugh was good. It resonated. It was honest. When Grantaire laughed it was like glass being dragged across sandpaper. 

“Go for it, my friend, although I have no sympathies if he tears your head off” he clapped Grantaire on the shoulder. “Eight tonight, the café basement as per. Take money for coffee, okay. No hard stuff.” He winked. “No alcohol either, yeah?”

Grantaire scowled, but there was no denying the embarrassing flush of red that rushed to his cheeks. “Whatever.”

A bell rang. Courf turned pale, but he appeared happy. His knuckles turned white around the book. He glanced at Grantaire. 

“Better get going. I’ll catch up with you later,” he held up his free hand to wave. “Eight, remember!”

“Yeah, eight.”

**

He tilted his head back and sighed shakily, mouth moving in silent prayer. He slumped slightly, shoulders sagging and muscles tensing and relaxing alternatively. He tossed the used needle aside, watching as it glinted in the evening sunlight before vanishing into dark green shrubbery, feral and wild like his hair and withering and thorny like his heart. He was running out of money. Running out of time and luck and breath. He had to stop using that stuff. It was going to kill him, strip him of the only thing he had left; his body. And even that was pathetic. He could just take one too many, and it would be gone too and the dark would take him at last and rock him into a lonely slumber.

From his vantage point he could see Enjolras step off of the bus at the end of the day. Combeferre wasn’t with him. Perhaps he stayed behind to catch up on some reading or console Jehan, or whatever it was they got up to together. 

The sun gave the blonde man a halo. The gentle breeze gave him wings. His lips were pursed, his cheeks were white, like marble. He was perfectly crafted, a work of art, a masterpiece. He was everything Grantaire wasn’t and wanted. An anchor, a chain. He seemed translucent, so far away. It ached to be away from him, but it ached even more to be close. But the ache was sweet and welcomed. His arm throbbed.

Suddenly, Enjolras' head cocked to the side and he sniffed, as though he could smell the reek of booze from his neighbour’s pores. Grantaire bit his lip and turned away, blushing and grinning like a ten year old girl. When he looked back, the boy had gone like an idea in the fields of a clouded mind. 

Grantaire blinked. His blood was a hundred miles an hour in his veins. He tottered. He thought of those pursed lips on his and he couldn’t hold back the glee. 

Eight o clock. 

Tonight was the night.

**

_He stared down, in a state of shock. His stomach churned, his brain spun, swam with guilt and panic. However, his heart was steady, thudding pleasantly in his chest. A void called him, an endless chasm he crouched and peered down into sheepishly._

_At the bottom of it, he saw that light._

_He smiled._

_He had done right._


	2. Enjolras/Red

Enjolras was standing up on the table when Grantaire swanned in purposefully late. He knew Courf would have mentioned that he would be paying a visit, and had played the various possible expressions Enjolras could have made over in his mind's eye like a photo reel. It amused him no end, teasing the student. It was his way of showing affection; the sharp, cutting remarks and the cynical, sceptical viewpoints that threw off his equilibrium when he couldn't muster up an argument against them; they hid subtle messages, concealed secret desires and thoughts. How he was oblivious to Grantaire's gaze was incredible, impossible, even. Everyone else knew how much Grantaire depended on him. Maybe he did know. Maybe he was just ignoring his neighbour because he despised him for real, as though he knew who he really was. Maybe he couldn't see past the outside layer. Thoughts like that haunted Grantaire's restless slumbers. 

In fact, it was quite the opposite. Enjolras saw more in Grantaire than Grantaire saw in himself. What he saw was the same as what those teachers saw. 

The zealous enthusiast thrust a cup of something cold, grasped in his right hand, up into the muggy air above his head, like a Greek hero raising a chalice. He had a large grin on his face that stretched across his cheeks, spittle flecked on his lips and damp sweat stains around his neck and under his arms. He was shouting with unbridled fervour about the school education system, and how tutoring fares were bad, and how the treatment of students was no better. It was a rousing performance, perfected by the master. Friends and comrades and brothers in banter crowded the tables; the regulars, casual spectators who had heard until then only stories of such a prophet, and some girls who gathered in clingy clumps, giggling and batting their heavily made-up eyelashes at their leader; not that he was paying any notice, he was clearly disinterested in those sorts of pastimes. 

The entire cafe basement was reserved for them, and it became a circus, with Enjolras as their ringmaster. It was alive, buzzing with noise and energy, positively charged by positive people, united against one main issue. They laughed loud and clean and good, into their drinks and up at the ceiling and into the shoulders of others. They cheered like they were witnessing the final act of a stage show, right before the final curtain, and they applauded until their hands were numb and then they whistled the best they could. So many of them cramped into one small space, dimly lit by small yellow discs, filled with the scent of blended coffee and smuggled liquor, and there were no enemies there. Everyone was finally equal.

Courfeyrac pounded his fist in the air, chanting, perspiration a thin sheen on his brow and his hair as he was completely enthralled by the activity. Jehan sat close to him, grinning gingerly, cheeks pink. He seemed happy- his exam must have gone well. Joly was huddled anxiously around his cup of coffee, but eyes upwards on the table-turned-stage, and would glance at his phone or feel for it in his jeans every now and again. He was probably thinking of Musichetta. There was no Marius. His appearances had been irregular as of late, provoking a sense of prickliness within the close-knit group.

Combeferre leapt onto the nearest chair and grabbed his best friend's arm, pumping it like he was parading a champion boxer around the ring at the climax of a fight. 

"Vive la Republique!" he yelled, somewhat tipsy. 

"Vive la Republique!" the crowd chorused in perfect unison, whooping and hooting like parrots. 

Enjolras beamed proudly at his friends. That old saying was still raw in his bones. A motto passed down through the generations.

Across the lively room, Grantaire watched from the doorway, having slipped down the stairs and squeezed his way through the bustling bodies. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. He stood on his tiptoes and craned his neck. There was a girl by the door. He recognised her.

"Eponine?" he wailed above the clamour. 

The girl turned sharply and regarded him with dark eyes cautiously, wrinkling her nose. Yes, it was Eponine, the girl who lived above the cafe with her plucky brat of a brother. She then rolled her shining but sleepy eyes and slouched against the brown walls. Her pretty face was framed with glossy black hair. 

"Well if it isn't the rally-crasher," she said with a half-smile. "Fancy seeing you here again."

"I can't believe the manager of this place doesn't kick them out," Grantaire raised his voice again so she could hear him over the din. "It's like they're about to riot!"

"They're probably planning some sort of march. Besides," she shrugged delicately and smoothed out her green-grey pinafore. The logo was printed on the fabric: a coffee mug accompanied by the cliché croissant, with the words 'Cafe l’ABC' printed in a faux calligraphy font below it. "Boss says it brings in a good profit."

Grantaire laughed. The 'Boss' was her father. He had a reputation for never deciding on the cost of their produce; it changed almost weekly. He had a way with the customers, charmed them, babied them, made them his friends. Eponine didn't have much love for him. 

"Hey, R, is Marius here?" she asked suddenly, not making eye contact with him but instead scouring the sea of heads for the haircut of the rich boy. "Did Courf say anything? He's squatting with him at the moment. Got into another spat with his dick grandpa. Thought he could do with some comforting. I'm...worried, y'know?" There was a tenderness in her eyes Grantaire recognised like he was looking in a mirror.

"How do you know all that?"

She shrugged again. "I know a lot of stuff." An elbow jabbed into his ribs. "Your boyfriend's looking at you."

He wanted to retort with "he's not my boyfriend", but Eponine had melted into the swarm of uncomfortably warm bodies. Grantaire stared at Enjolras, who stared back, expression ambiguous, stoic, verging on the edge of severity and wildness. He was an animal, bristling with over-confidence and ready to rip apart any idiotic opinion that stood in his way.

Combeferre was then looking at him, and waved. "R! Hey, guys, R's here! R, get over here!"

"Does he have wine?" Courf asked eagerly. 

"Did he wash his hair this time?" Joly wittered petulantly. 

"R!" Combeferre wriggled down from the chair, the hands of strangers groping at his ankles and lower legs, trying to support him. “R! Over here!”

"Hey, guys," Courf addressed those in front of him and parted his arms as though he were commanding a sea. "Can you let our friend through? Thanks guys! R! Come on!"

He found Grantaire's shoulder in the melee and yanked him to the table. 

"Sorry there's not really any seats," Combeferre apologised. "Kind of busy here. Great fun, though!"

“Yeah…” Grantaire nodded, and was aware of the foreign bodies around him. No wonder Joly got squeamish. 

Enjolras was still staring at him. 

“Is your speech over, O mighty highness?” Grantaire asked with mock politeness, shooting the sniggering friends a smug wink. 

“Mm. Yes. I was just about to enjoy the company of my friends, actually,” his voice was a hostile, firm scold. Grantaire inhaled sharply, but kept his cool. 

“Then what are you waiting for?!” he chuckled. “Drink with us!”

He saw the hate in the eyes of the protestor and he winced inwardly as the ice blade slid further into his heart. But it was good. The hate kept him striving. But if only he could get a smile. He wanted to be an equal, too.

_Drink with me. Sit with me. Be with-_

“Enjolras is a fucking hypocrite! You say you fight for equality and freedom and you plan marches, sure, but you only care about one side! You don’t care about how we feel when we feel differently to you! You say shit about Enjolras and you don’t get a look in, huh? We are left to rot and left unheard because of you! And don’t try to get your friends to take me out, I know you don’t care how many of them get arrested or hurt for your stupid ‘causes’. You just care about your own glory, you communist dickhead!”

The voice echoed across the café basement like it was the speaking of a god. Everyone fell deathly silent in an instant. Muffled mumbling bubbled here and there and heads turned to find the speaker. 

It was a tall man with red hair lacquered to his forehead. He clenched his fingers into fists, brow furrowed, creating trench-like creases between his eyes. He was fuming. People moved away from him, wary, wondering if there was going to be a fight. He looked older than any of them. All eyes were on Enjolras, who merely pressed his lips into a thin line. That was a habit, Grantaire noticed. 

“Who are you?” he asked at last, perfectly calm. 

“My name isn’t important, my reason is,” the stranger replied, hostile. 

Enjolras smirked. If they were on the same side, they could have been brothers.

“I don’t appreciate your intrusion,” Enjolras continued.

“I don’t appreciate your leadership. I will never side with you.”

Enjolras’ nearly bared his teeth. “Leave. Now.”

“Only when these people know the truth about you! You’re nothing but an obnoxious spreader of hate. You’re no better than the ones you oppose! By uprising, you only oppress!”

Combeferre moved closer to the stranger. “Okay, we understand, and we’re sorry we troubled you, but you have to go now, please?” he urged softly.

“But he’s not sorry!” the stranger yelled, and struck Combeferre in the stomach, knocking the wind from him and Jehan rushed to his side. “And you’re just another one of his blind soldiers!”

“Do you know this guy, Enj?” Courf enquired in a hushed whisper, and Enjolras shook his head minutely. 

Jehan and Combeferre struggled with the stranger who only kept yelling louder and louder until his sentences became tangled. Eventually, he was pushed out of the back door into the frosty night. But Grantaire wasn’t involved in that. He was watching Enjolras, their fearless leader. His steely face, suddenly aged by the threat, no longer girlish. His arms were tense, the muscles not hidden by the fabric of a coat, the tendons tightening, veins visible on the surface of the skin like embossed rivers on a map. He was poised, primal, terrifying; a force of nature that didn’t like being maddened. Electricity shot through Grantaire’s system, unable to tear his eyes away. And Enjolras’ eyes, his eyes, always his eyes, but this time they were haunted by dread and…fear? Was he frightened because the stranger may have been right? 

Grantaire shivered despite the warmth. He was chilled to his core. And abruptly very angry. The emotion took him by surprise. He felt it. He really could! The single spark struck from the flint that started a great fire that roared. How dare that stranger barge into the basement like that? How dare he spout those false accusations, those awful allegations, claiming that Enjolras was narrow-minded and selfish? If anyone was selfish it was Grantaire. He didn’t have the right, he couldn’t just storm their base in that way, disrupt their good evening. He was monstrous and inconsiderate. He deserved to rot. 

The fury boiled in the pit of Grantaire’s stomach, and he was filled with the desire to move. Was this motivation at last? But to do what?

“R. You okay?” Joly had his eyes on the art student, concerned. “Your nails.”

Grantaire looked at his hands and saw how white his knuckles were. He relaxed his joints and flexed his hand, turning it so that the palm face upwards. Joly bit his tongue. He’d drawn blood. Quickly he wiped it on his trousers.

“I’m fine,” he said, but in reality he was elated. He was _feeling_. He had been granted some of Enjolras’ abilities. 

“If there were less people like him in the world, we would be much closer to our goals,” Enjolras mused, frustrated. “And closer as civilians. He didn’t even have anything to base his facts on.”

_Closer._  
 _Is that what I have to do to secure a relationship with you? I need him close…I need that light. I’ll fall if I don’t have it, can’t he see?!_

He got to his feet. The crowd had dispersed slightly, the atmosphere killed by the interrupter. His friends looked to him. Enjolras’ gaze was pure poison. 

“I, I’ve got to go,” Grantaire explained hurriedly.

“To drink yourself into another stupor, no doubt,” Enjolras spat. 

“Cool it, Enj. He's more than that, you know it,” Combeferre advised, laying a steady hand on his friend’s arm. “The guy’s just busy. At least he turned up.”

Enjolras grimaced but remained quiet. Grantaire allowed himself one last look before sneaking out the back exit.

He was running on a high. A metallic buzzing rang in his ears like a television on the blink. He squinted his eyes in the dark, suddenly exposed to the March air, suddenly aware of the dark. The space behind the café was narrow and wet; moss grew in dewy clumps between the cobbles and rats scurried around the aluminium trash cans. There was a brick wall directly opposite the door, leaving only enough comfortable breathing room for a set of shoulders. The noise was inside was muffled. The stars in the sky twinkled weakly. There was no moon; it was obscured by the clouds. But he felt safe.

He looked around for the interrupter, knowing he couldn’t have gone far. He would be waiting for Enjolras to leave so he could assault him, probably. The anger purred inside Grantaire. He didn’t realise how heavy his breathing was. He felt steam on his tongue. He had to find the light. He had to make Enjolras see. He had to protect him from idiots like the stranger who would only cause him to deflate and doubt. He had to preserve the light. 

“Hey!” he called out. “I know you’re still out here!”

He was right. The interrupter moved into perspective. He looked confused. 

“What do you want?” he asked gruffly.

“What the fuck do you think you were playing at back there?” Grantaire snapped, the anger flexing.

The stranger made a face. “Listen, your boyfriends already chucked me out-”

“You offended our leader!” Grantaire said, but the stranger took a step back as though he had yelled. His voice sounded muted in his head. “Don’t you have any respect?! Can’t you see what he’s doing for this generation?! You should bow before him!”

The stranger held up his palms, defensive. He looked uneasy. “Alright, calm down, I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not! Scum like you never are, you never will be. You only go out to smash that light!” 

_Smash his light._

_For Enjolras._

It happened so fast. It was an accident.

Almost.

The rage had consumed him entirely, and he had left his body. The sheer force propelled his limbs and muscles forward and his brain simply became a spectator, observing fast hands clutch collars and shuddering as brick met bone. Then again. And again. And again. It didn’t flinch at the screams, didn’t feel the need to vomit when the stonework turned scarlet. When Grantaire’s conscience returned to its cell, there was no fixing the situation anyway. 

The interrupter slumped awkwardly to the wet ground. From the neck up, he was just pink and grey pulp, oozing red and weeping white. What could be seen as an eye stared out in terror. Teeth dangled from gums. The nose was non-existent. The hands curled a little, grasping for life, before they were still. He stood in a gradually expanding pool of red. It tricked down the wall like tears. 

Grantaire didn’t cry or yell out. He stayed still. A fog lifted as the anger left him, the same suddenness as a hangover vanishes. Everything became clear. The dark was cold and merciless around his shoulders, and he became flustered. The light, the light! Had he saved it? He had saved Enjolras, but would he get the light again? He realised there were tears on his face and they stained his cheeks. His arms were sore. His ears were ringing still. Something in the back of his mind was shrieking at him, but he couldn’t quite hear it. He’d taken a life. For an instant he felt horrible, terrible. He sobbed an apology, but it fell on deaf ears. _Take my place instead, why should I deserve to live now?_

He looked over his shoulder at the exit door, knowing that his Apollo was still inside. Had they heard? Would he be caught? He’d have to run, sacrifice the light, succumb further into the darkness that coaxed him in. He was parched, needed a drink. His eyes were blurring, he needed another fix. He was going to burst, he needed something sharp to drain away the dirty blood. He ran his hands through his hair and gripped it hard. Some strands fell out. His breath was sticky. He had to confess.

But the anger had felt so good; so real and raw and reverent. He had done what was necessary to safeguard the light, to keep him alive, like a flower turning to face the sun. 

He stared down, in a state of shock. His stomach churned, his brain spun, swam with guilt and panic. However, his heart was steady, thudding pleasantly in his chest. A void called him, an endless chasm he crouched and peered down into sheepishly. 

At the bottom of it, he saw that light.

He smiled.

He had done right.


	3. Grantaire/Black

His sleep was tormented. The dark was taunting him now. It called him a toad. Told him he was incapable. Told him he was worthless. It told him in the voice of his muse and it laughed his laugh, and Grantaire could only squirm and kick in the hot, sweaty sheets and wail, scrambling fruitlessly for the daylight that floated further and further away. 

When he woke, he stared in the mirror for a long time, bare toes growing cold on the tiles. He wanted a fix. He wanted to forget completely. He wanted to shed his skin and put on a new one, fresh and clean and dry. There were bruises on his arms and his muscles were raw. Underneath one eye was slightly swollen. His pupils were strained pin pricks framed with claret webbing. His hair stuck out in random directions, but he couldn’t be bothered to brush it. Absently, he ran his fingers through the mess, and picked out the inky strands. His scalp was red. His eyes were bleary. His lips were gnawed. His skin was blotchy and his chin unshaven. There were bites on his neck and the thin skin of his collarbone, but he couldn’t remember how old they were, or who had left them. His stomach lurched and he vomited into the sink, retching violently. His knees buckled and he clutched onto the enamel, breathing thickly and with difficulty. The sour tang on his tongue made his insides twist. He was disgusting, he realised. Inside and out. His own reflection mocked him, doubled over giggling at his expense, jeering. 

He dragged his nails over his fragile skin-

_Smash his light…_

-dug in deeper, just like he’d done at the café-

_Smash your light._

-willing it to break-

_Smash your lights and come into the darkness, Toad._

-willing it to seep-

_I’ll hold you in the darkness, Toad. I’ll never let you go. Isn’t that what you want?_

-willing it to replace the blood shed by the heckler the night before-

_I’ll love you, Toad. I’ll love you forever in the darkness._

-willing it to break for Enjolras’ sake.

There was a knock on the door. 

Grantaire rose warily to his feet, suddenly terrified. It was the police. It had to be. They’d found him. They’d known it was him. He’d been sloppy, he probably left DNA everywhere. He sobbed, the noise catching between his teeth, the noise of a meek, spineless creature. He was a monster. He deserved to be locked up, flogged and beaten, his remains thrown to the animals to snack on. Not even they would eat, probably. What use are you to anyone? You are two-dimensional, you are emotionless, you are incapable. 

His stomach gurgled and ached again, but the back of his throat was already burning with acid. He washed his face and his mouth out, shivering, goosebumps appearing on his skin as it came into contact with the cold water, trickling down his bare chest. He grabbed a shirt from an old laundry pile and pulled a pair of stray trousers over his boxers, and stumbled apprehensively towards the door. His heart thudded viciously in its cage. His balance was off, still reeling from the poisonous cocktail of wine and rage. His world flipped and swung. The darkness followed behind him like the ever-present shadow it was.

It was Combeferre on the doorstep.

Grantaire breathed a sigh of relief and the darkness left him for the moment, he held onto the door frame, trying to appear nonchalant. He noticed over his visitor’s shoulder that the door to his apartment was open. He could see blonde hair. His heart mewled, needy. Combeferre looked concerned. 

“Hi, R.”

“Morning,” Grantaire replied, surprised at how gruff his voice was. He coughed deliberately. The action caused pain to stab his head. It pierced through like a steel rod. 

Combeferre frowned. “It’s one in the afternoon. Did you just wake up?”

“I, er, had a long night,” it took effort to look his friend in the face. One in the afternoon? Had he really spent that long asleep? He didn’t remember when he’d gotten into bed.

“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Combeferre fidgeted a little. “Were you okay? I mean, you did come straight home, yeah?”

Grantaire’s pulse quickened again and his hands found his pockets where he scrunched and twisted the material inside them anxiously. _No, actually, I didn’t. I murdered a guy in a dark alley because I thought it would ensure the love of your roommate and then before crawling lamely into my own flat, I stood and stared at the door of YOUR flat for ages._ He’d created a thousand scenarios in his mind’s eye. Enjolras behind it, dancing, swaying gently to Grantaire’s low humming as they spent the night together. The door opening and the man himself waiting, inviting him in, or leaving it dressed smartly, cheeks rosy and flustered. He touched the wood, pictured it as skin, soft and pliable. He imagined breaking the barrier between them, taking an axe to it, destroying it once and for all. He breathed in its scent, let it intoxicate him further. He felt the jealous twinges pang in his gut when he thought of Combeferre being able to see the activist ruffled by a night’s sleep, soaking after a shower, the unavoidable accidental glimpses of flesh when he walked in at a wrong moment. Grantaire had retreated when the red turned to green, and slept when the green turned to black.

“Yeah,” he gave a forced laugh. “Why, was our fearless Apollo worried for the safety of his favourite cynic?”

_Shit. I said Apollo out loud._

Combeferre didn’t smile. “Um, it was Joly actually who said that you weren’t looking yourself. He said you cut your hand.”

Grantaire smoothed his thumb over the markings on his palm. “It wasn’t on purpose. I just don’t know my own strength, I guess.”

_You only have strength when you are mad. You are a weakling, Toad._

__“Oh. Okay. If you need anything…”_ _

__“Yeah, I know, just across the hall.”_ _

__“You should come over sometime; you seem to be on your own a lot,” Combeferre said. He still appeared unconvinced by Grantaire’s demeanour. “We do care about you, R.”_ _

___Not all of you._ __

__“Even Enjolras.”_ _

__Grantaire blinked, unable to hide his disbelief. There was a shift in light behind Combeferre’s eyes as though he was struggling to refrain from grinning._ _

__Grantaire waved his hand, salvaging what he could of his costume. “I knew he was just playing hard to get.”_ _

__Combeferre let out a breath that may have carried a light chuckle. “Okay. Well, I’ll see you at school. Or wherever. Oh, and, R?”_ _

__“Mm…?” he was itching to leave. There was something pushing against his internal organs, swelling. Passion. Inspiration. His muse. _Get the fuck out of here already, ‘Ferre!__ _

__“You didn’t see anything…brutal, on your way home, did you?”_ _

__Trepidation flooded Grantaire’s brains. He knows. He’s always known. Combeferre was smart. Combeferre was going to turn him._ _

__“Um, n-no. Why?”_ _

__A stillness, serene and sober came over Combeferre’s face. He could be very serious at times._ _

__“Some guy was killed last night round the café. Same guy who pissed off Enj. I just wondered if-”_ _

___If I’d done it? If it was me? Because it was. Oh, God, ‘Ferre it was me, don’t tell him, don’t say it was me. He’ll find out eventually, but don’t tell him, it was for him, all for him, I want him, only him, can’t you see why I had to do it?_ _ _

__“-you had been hurt or not,” Combeferre finished solemnly. “I don’t think they’re investigating it. Just another bar brawl gone wrong, I guess.” He smiled suddenly, brightening. “So long as you’re alright.”_ _

__Grantaire only nodded, swallowing hard to relieve the giant lump in his throat, as though he’d swallowed one of the bricks from the wall. “Yeah,” he nearly gasped. “I’ll see you around.”_ _

__He closed the door over with a force, too-sweet smile. He walked purposefully over to the kitchen and sat by the window he adored. His mind was racing too far ahead of him and he needed to calm before he suffered any sort of attack. _He cares. Hecareshecareshereallycares.__ _

___Or maybe ‘Ferre’s just screwing with you? They all know you like him…_ _ _

___As if he would care, Toad._ _ _

__The voice in the back of his head chuckled, but didn’t pipe up again. Grantaire was too happy to listen to it. He was lost in a mad daze. The light was right there, he could almost touch it. He had done what was necessary to bring it close, and here it was coming. All he had to do was protect Enjolras from any threat, remove any obstacle so that he could achieve his goal, and then love Grantaire for doing so, for being a valued comrade. Yes, it was messy and nasty and not to mention fairly illegal, but it made sense. It wasn’t as though he was committing the acts in cold blood; he was doing it to feel, for love and for friendship. He was saving the world of another, and in turn saving his own._ _

__He looked out of the window, delighted. The streets below were bright in the Saturday daylight, busy and bustling with life. The rumble of traffic was a soothing whir. So different to the opaque, troublesome nights. He could see beyond the rooftops and the empty space of the sky behind them where birds took flight. How he wanted to be that bird, a phoenix like his muse. He wanted to soar, break the chains that bound him to the earth and experience that complete freedom. There was clarity in his mind; the world was a different shade. Yellow, this time. Not grey._ _

__He snatched up a nearby pencil and a piece of crumpled paper from an abandoned, coffee-stained notebook he kept by the sill, praying in case the moment struck him. It had. He thought of freedom and longing. He drew lust and love. Hands straying down smooth marble, fingers digging into flesh. Pupils wide, mouths parted. He drew wings and limbs, splayed. He drew madness and fever and want. He drew faster, until he tore through the paper, but that left him undeterred. He drew until his hand ached. He drew until the sun turned the sky orange and he collapsed, half-burnt out in a pile of papers. Dozens of them scattered across the apartment like snow, the face and the features of his muse looking up at the bleeding sky, positions varied between study, sensual and explicit._ _

__Grantaire smiled and lay down on them, stripping back to his underwear and shuddered, the parchment delicate on his skin like insect wings. Paint and graphite riddled his body. His heart pulsed like the swells of the ocean in his ears. The light in his mind was as blinding as an exploding star, promising him a thousand brilliant things, promising him forever. It filled him in, fattening him out at last, giving him dimension and reason, overwhelming him with its power and he submitted to it absolutely._ _

__He knew his purpose, at last. He had to serve Apollo, whatever the cost._ _

__He was capable of stunning things. Stunning, terrible things._ _


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> let's take a look at the lives of some characters in happier moments before continuing with the slow spiral descent of beloved R for a bit, yeah?

Meanwhile. 

"Hey, Jehan."

The long-haired brunette raised his head from his desk that overlooked the quieter part of the city and glanced across at his flatmate, smiling fondly despite a glint of puzzlement in his eyes from being interupted. Courfeyrac noticed the green plastic of a green pencil behind Jehan's ear, which he twisted absently. Something about the literary student made him feel at once at ease, as though the storms in his head had calmed. He would be protected in the presence of Jehan; that kid could fight off anyone who provoked him or bothered his friends. He could see his own reflection in the mirror of Jehan's room. He looked more rumpled than usual; probably just stressed over a matter he wasn't even aware of. They were all stressed lately. For a moment, he missed having a girl he could go to. 

"What's wrong, Courf?" Jehan was stooped over a stack of books, a small table lamp focusing a dim light on the pages. His room was cluttered, but in a way that could be described as artistic. Papers of scrapped poetry and completed verses formed organised piles on the bed and pillow; books and folios stacked against the wall and were squeezed into a narrow bookcase; pencils and pens and empty inkwells were dotted here and there, a writer's office in a typhoon. The Blake book Courf had bought as a present lay on the bedside table, cover perked up, freshly opened. The bookmark was a pressed magnolia. He remembered that evening well. The exhaustion on his flatmate's face and the paleness of his cheeks was initially worrying, although Courf knew Jehan would excell his class without a bother. He made hot drinks and they sat and chatted aimlessly until seven-thirty; Jehan about his wrong usage of paragraphing and how he wished he had more time to explore why the iambic pentameter provided an effective insight into the soldier's character- whatever that meant- and Courfeyrac just nodded and listened, only offering chatter when prompted, about the girls who flirted with him, and of Grantaire. He hadn't given the gift to Jehan until they had returned from the cafe that night, on the front step of the building, out in the cold under the lamp-light. Jehan had loved it, hugged him a little too long. But Courf didn't mind. Jehan gave good hugs.

Courfeyrac sighed. "You sat your exam the other day. Shouldn't you rest? You'll get a migraine hunched over those textbooks all day."

"I'm fine. I'm writing." Sure enough there were graphite smudges on the side of his hand, pencil twitching between his fingers like a cigarette. He didn't look fine. He looked the complete opposite, actually. Courf's stomach twisted, sickly. Jehan was prone to these...waves. Jehan clenched his free hand.

"Can I read it?" Courf asked, with mild shyness. He knew it was poetry, no longer having any essays to write for his course, something sappy and sickly-sweet, but nonetheless soothing. Or, maybe it wasn't. He seemed to be harbouring a lot of angst. Courf was suddenly struck with extreme sympathy; Jehan was the happy-go-lucky one of the group, he had a reputation to keep as kind and good humoured and a dreamer. He found it difficult to show the other, less romantic side. 

Jehan pouted, contemplative. "I...don't know. Okay, sure. Actually. Not yet. When it's finished."

"At least come and sit down for a minute, take your mind off things."

Courf wandered over to the sofa of their apartment, walking away from Jehan's bedroom. They lived in the same building as Enjolras, Grantaire and Combeferre. He turned on the television, fiddled with the remote a bit. A mindless daytime programme warbled. Jehan watched him for a second from the hallway, then moved over to him hesitantly. He sat down. They sat close. Courf was dressed in a thin grey tee, Jehan in a comfortable long-sleeved top. 

"What are you writing about now?" Courf asked.

"Life. Love," Jehan went a shade of bashful pink, and resembled a kitten as he buried his nose between his knees as he drew them up onto the couch. But his mouth wasn't smiling. His eyes were pained.

"Anyone in particular?" Courfeyrac asked again, smiling suggestively, then laughed as Jehan's expression turned very serious. "I'm only kidding."

The noise of birds chattered outside. Courf could hear Combeferre through the walls, talking in a yawn about his studies, explaining to a no-doubt uninterested Enjolras his feelings on a recent philosophical epiphany. He then heard their chief's voice asking after their drunk, a brief bicker, and then Combeferre's padding across the way. Grantaire had been acting oddly recently. 

"Well, if there is anyone, you know you need my approval first," Courf winked. He enjoyed making Jehan blush as much as he liked to fluster Enjolras. Only Jehan didn't react as violently. 

"You're not my mother!" Jehan exclaimed, voice squeaking. He slouched, knowing there was no point in arguing, eyes fixed on the TV. "There's no one."

"Yeah. Same here."

The programme ended and the credits rolled, a cheesy theme plink-plonking from the speakers. They were glad Marius wasn't staying with them that day; the silence would've been interupted by his warblings and opinions on the show.

"Thanks for the book, Courf. I know I've already said so, but I love it. I really do. All the notes someone's left and the smell, god, it's amazing! Combeferre would be so jealous!" Jehan smiled brightly, or as bright as he could, but that sense of relaxation and reassurance that would have usually settled over Courfeyrac was replaced by unease. Jehan was making eye contact with him. "Thank you."

"Yeah, I knew you'd like it," Courf raised his chin smugly, but his grin was sincere. He bit his tongue. Okay, he was going to have to investigate.

There was still something bothering the other boy. Courf looked at him, questioning. Jehan sighed.

"It's just...getting really stressful, Courf. I don't...we've got to continue doing this for, what, sixty years? Just breathing. I can't do it. I'm not going to make it. I...I'm worried."

"About what? And where's all this come from?"

"That...this-" he gestured to himself and the room he'd just left. "-Is all I am. I want to be more. I want to show there's more to me. Y'know? I'm not one dimensional. I refuse to be."

Courf said nothing for a moment, only gazed at his friend in pity and confusion. "Jean. Listen. You're not just a pretty blushing flower child hippie, 'kay? You struggled with that guy in the café. You fuck shit up more than R when I get picked on by some ass in the bar. Remember that time you stood off to that guy in the alley when I got handsy with his girl by mistake? Your views on God and politics can rival Enj, y'know. The only reason he doesn't argue with you is cos he likes you too much and doesn't want to hurt your feelings accidentally. And, you make good cakes. "

"Cakes aren't masculine, Courfeyrac."

"That's what you're worried about? Who gives a shit if you're butch or not? I don't."

"You don't?"

"Hell, no. You're awesome, Prouvaire. Please. Don't forget that. Got it?"

Jehan chewed his lip and nodded sadly, smiling a little. "Got it."

Jehan shuffled closer until their sides were touching, and they watched only the TV that afternoon, casually stealing glances every now and again at the other, to make sure they were still awake. 

They could write their own poetry later.

 

**

 

Marius had missed the events of the cafe that night. He didn't see the heckler, he didn't partake in the debates, he didn't see the rising anger in Grantaire's blood. He was too engrossed in his own emotions. He tossed and turned in the dark, too excited and elated to sleep, even though his sleep celebrated the beauty that was Cosette. 

He spent the majority of his mornings, afternoons and evenings with her. They would walk and gossip of pointless things; the weather, how Valjean's vegetable garden was growing, the latest fashion Cosette had chosen to don. The other day she had worn a floral chiffon blouse over a parchment-white vest as delicate as her features, complmented by tan skinny jeans with a high waist and beige ballet pumps. She had decorated her wrists with fancy bangles and tied a pale lemon yellow ribbon in her hair to keep it from her face. Instead, it cascaded down her back in waves and ringlets. She caught the sun and the season of Spring and seemed to weave it into her entire being. Marius walked by her side in a giddy fog, the happiest, proudest man in Paris. 

He kissed her fluttering hands and her soft cheeks and tickled her waist until she squealed and batted him away playfully. He had come to learn, though, that she was not foolish. In many ways, she was more intelligent than he. He was willing to cast aside any matter as trivial to please Cosette, eager to drop any current focus to be with her, to tend to her needs (infrequent times, but there were days where she begged for company to stroll through the park, and so he skipped meetings with his friends yet again.). He admired every part of her, and was never bored of her. She, too, couldn't wish for a better relationship. 

They were sitting on a bench in the park, Cosette sipping a cold drink and kicking her toes lazily, sandals allowing air to circulate. There was a butterfly pin in her hair, handmade with help from her papa, and the gems caught the light. She watched the crowds of people walk idly by. Marius had a slowly melting ice-cream cone, a purchase which Cosette convinced him into.

"Marius, why don't you introduce me to your friends?" Cosette asked, her sweet voice slightly sticking from soda. 

"I'm waiting for the right time. Would you like to meet them?" 

In truth, he didn't think his friends would like to meet Cosette. Not all of them. Okay, not Enjolras. The others seemed happy for him, more-or-less. Yes, they were slightly irritated by his disappearances from the meets, but they were glad he was glad. They were good friends. So long as he didn't continue to bore them with countless details of their dates. He was sure they were tired of hearing about them.

"Yeah. You've met my dad, so it's only right I meet your friends. They sound nice."

Marius smiled weakly. They were confident and brash at times, and he had a constant fear they would jeer at their lack of physical intimacy. He finished his ice cream, wincing as the cold stung his teeth. He broke the cone and tossed it to some hungry birds. 

Cosette leaned on his shoulder and nuzzled his neck aimbly. "This is perfect," she mused.

He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her fruity shampoo. She was perfect. He took her hand and rubbed it, then turned her face so it met his.

"I'll take you to see them on Thursday," he promised and she smiled, blue eyes shining, and kissed him. 

She shot to her feet and grabbed him by the hand, pulling him up too, her giggle like a chime as his pink, startled face amused her.

"Come on! Let's go to the fountain!" she cried and started running, dragging him behind as she raced across the grass, the blades tickling the soles of her slight feet.

Blackbirds scattered and passerbys rolled their eyes as the young couple made their own map of Paris.

 

**

 

Eponine kept a close eye on the cafe's customers. After the wild ruckus that was a couple nights ago, she had been wary of potential idiots. She didn't want the boys to leave the cafe to find another base for their meetings; she loved it when they were there. She loved Marius most of all. But she couldn't say anything because he was with Cosette. She tried to forget about him and his kindness and his pretty face and-

She sighed and shook her head, tying her hair back forcefully in the mirror with a black stretchy band and smiled at her reflection. She was just as beautiful as Cosette, perhaps more. That's what she told herself every morning as she washed her face and pursed her lips. She had the hair the colour of magpie's plumage and a brain as fast as a cat's. She'd fly one day like the Lark.

There came a thundering down the hallway, fast footsteps racing towards her, and Gavroche burst into her room, all beams and laughter. He rammed into her, throwing his arms around her and hugging her tight. 

"Ep! I'm back!" he cried happily, gripping her until she pushed him playfully away.

"Where have you been?!" she asked, but couldn't work up enough effort to be mad. She hadn't seen her baby brother in a long time; he had a habit of running away and living rough with his urchin friends. Their parents didn't seem to care, but Eponine did.

"Here and there," the boy replied nonchalently. "What have I missed, sis?"

"Me! Did you miss me?"

"Of course! I told my friends stories about how you beat up butch guys who try to kiss you in the basement downstairs and how they cry," Gavroche stuck his chest out proudly. "They think you're 'badass'."

Eponine laughed, ruffled his hair and pinched his cheek, and he hit her gently. She scooped him up in her arms and he clambered onto her back. She forgot about the boys from the basement and became the big sister she had learned and loved to be. She carried Gavroche about the flat, acting as his horse, pretending like she was going to drop him now and then, causing him to wail and shriek and hoot with joyish, childish laughter. 

She didn't need to fly. She was earth-bound and that was her virtue. 

 

**

Enjolras opened up all the windows in the apartment. The cool air was sweet on his forehead. He ran a hand through his hair, and was surprised to find himself content. He looked out onto the streets below. He saw the buildings and the roads and the park beyond and birds scattering. He stood in the centre of the room and stretched out, clicking the bones in his fingers, and paused for a moment, not thinking of anything in particular for the first time in months.

Combeferre came back in and saw him there. 

"You look relaxed. Are you feeling alright?"

Enjolras gave him a look, but there was faint joy on his lips. "I'm fine. How is Grantaire?"

"He said he didn't see anything. He said he came straight home," Combeferre reported, taking off his glasses and rubbing the lenses with the material of his shirt. "Says he slept in."

Enjolras didn't look satisfied with that answer. "He is unstable," he diagnosed.

Combeferre sagged. "Can we not talk about this?"

"Why not?"

"It's a perfect day outside. It's not the weather for stressing. He's probably just tired from last night. Leave him be, he can muddle through things on his own." he laid a hand on Enjolras' shoulder. "Please, Enjolras? One day. I know you don't do things by halves but..."

"You're asking me to have a 'lazy day'?"

Combeferre shrugged. "Yeah." then he shook his head. "I don't care, I'm having one." he left to his room to change into shorts and to resume his book.

Enjolras sat by the window, twiddling with his mobile. He wasn't in the mood for communication. A butterfly settled on the window sill and he studied its intricate patterns. Pity the creature couldn't see them. Combeferre walked by again. 

"I'm going up on the roof. You shouldn't spend your whole day cooped up in here."

"Combeferre?"

"What?"

"Save me a spot. It's...too warm inside. I'll be up in a moment. I...I can get a better view of our rally routes."

Combeferre smirked knowingly. "Sure thing, Enj."

Enjolras snatched up a bunch of papers and jogged to his side; he was already wearing a tee so his arms were cool. They headed up to the roof. Combeferre slowly dozen off from the heat, but Enjolras stayed awake, just observing the skyline of his beloved in all of her perfection and glory.

 

**

 

Grantaire stirred...


	5. Noise

Jehan passed his exam with an A star. Cosette met the boys from the basement and they greeted her with kindness and banter (Marius' masculinity was only referenced once or twice). She got on well with them, danced with a clumsy Joly, and tugged at Grantaire’s hair when he was rude. Gavroche slept on the sofa of the Thenardier's apartment for four nights before scampering off again. Courfeyrac found himself tiring of girls making moves on him. Combeferre finished his book and presented a project to his philosophy class which won him newfound respect from a number of students and teachers. Joly had decided to invite another man into his relationship with Muschietta, and the three got on famously. Enjolras got his hair cut; it only just tickled the nape of his neck, curling around the lobes of his ears, giving him the impression of a Greek deity carved into marble. Apollo indeed.

All the while, Grantaire just watched. 

Time seemed to have hurried on without him. He still moved with the group, only slower, as though walking through a permanent daze. He would cackle at their jokes and listen into their problems, but he felt as though they were automatic reactions, they weren’t specialised.

He had burned all of his artwork that had previously been submitted for school projects. He had no care for it anymore. He had woken up too many mornings disorientated and rolled up in paper like the joints he smoked. He would only draw his muse. He took up football and boxing, as though demonstrating a desire to become active would somehow coax Enjolras into practicing with him. If it wasn’t working, at least it allowed him with a new outlet for his emotions. He would run for hours some days, harder and faster than was necessary so he tired out quick, but kept going until his muscles screamed and burned, and even then he’d carry on. The screaming was good. He would collapse, exhausted and soaked with sweat, on a bench in the park and gasp for air, before going on home. His legs were strengthening, his arms becoming more forceful as his punches became swift and effective. He was fast on his feet when he was focused, with a certain grace more suited to a dancer than a fighter, and was difficult to catch in the ring; he’d managed to win a handful of rounds. But it wasn’t the winning that made him proud; it was the image he was creating of himself. He was trying to better himself, make himself respectable and more approachable, someone energetic and not just a slob. He even played tennis with Marius and Cosette once. Enjolras would catch on eventually, and he had to be ready for the event. The urges to bleed and to drink still preyed upon him, the darkness was still there, it never left, but he could shoo it away now, he had more control. He hadn’t tasted liquor in a long time since he changed his tactics. However, he was struggling to find money to pay for the rent, which had led to his friends begrudgingly forking out from their own funds to support him. 

"You need to get a job somewhere, Grantaire," Enjolras had seethed during one of the rare times he decided to speak to Grantaire directly. "The state you’re in is becoming a joke. We can only help you so much. The rest is down to your own willpower."

God, he was preachy.

But he had a point, and Grantaire had replayed that snippet of conversation over in his head a thousand times until he could speak it and re-create the facial expressions by heart. It was a sign that he cared, wasn't it? He wanted Grantaire to get better, to find his feet. 'Even Enjolras', Combeferre had told him. Even Enjolras. Thoughts like that fuelled his desire to keep breathing, kept him believing his aching muscles were worth it. 

It had been weeks since his first act of violence. Since then he had been keeping a low profile. He went to the majority of his classes despite the crippling boredom that they brought (not all, but not too many; he had to remain consistent) and even allowed himself to flirt with some girls, acting blasé and offhand, as though nothing had changed. Some days , if he was feeling brave, he would board the same bus as their neighbours, but he would sit alone in front or behind the other four (or five, depending if Marius was staying with Courf and Jehan), and just listen to their conversations. Sometimes he would have input, if not to then snicker with Courfeyrac over unintentional and possible euphemisms uttered by their chief, which made Jehan roll his eyes and Combeferre sneer despite his good manners. Joly, he discovered, lived in a small house within walking distance, in which he lived with his partners and was paid for by their parents. 

And all the while he watched.

He watched the small movements instead of the larger ones. Aside from the haircut, there was little change to Enjolras’ routine. He got the same bus; he left the apartment at the same time Monday to Friday. The only alterations were the times they met in the basement. Some weekends they would gather there to debate and be loud, however other weeks Enjolras wouldn’t leave the flat unless accompanying Combeferre to an art-house cinema on a Saturday or to a museum gallery on a Sunday, and even then he had to be dragged away from his studies and plots. He didn’t eat outside of his rooms, except the small morsel of a meal at the university, and he didn’t have a part-time job as his rich family were paying for the lodgings, so far unaware of their son’s political views and shenanigans. Grantaire knew he favoured his right leg, and listened to classical music when he was tired, to keep him awake, and he often suffered migraines which could only be relieved by crawling back into bed. He thought of his muse wandering the hallowed halls of those museums, which exhibits he would favour; would he always return to a particular one? He thought of him sitting in a cinema, initially protesting that the plot was dull, but gradually becoming obsessively engrossed and attached to the characters and their situation, rooting for the underdog. According to a rumour, he was also easy to render submissive should the right pressure by applied to the knotted muscles beneath his shoulder blades. The mere image of his muse being unravelled like that just by a simple, well calculated touch was enough to make Grantaire tingle. He imagined the noises he’d make. Would he mewl? Moan? 

He remembered a conversation with his friends before, as they spent an evening in Courfeyrac’s apartment watching bad movies and arguing over silly things when the topic had turned –as it always did in the presence of Courf- somewhat explicit.

 

_”Everyone flirts with Courf, though,” Eponine pointed out, picking popcorn from her hair and from down her top. It was scattered all over the room from a play battle._

_She had been the second female accepted into their social group, which was slowly turning into a secret cult club. She was perched on the worktop of the small kitchen that merged into the living room, snuggled up in an oversized grey sweatshirt, a great vantage point over the group. Marius and Cosette in the armchair (she hadn’t retched once at the gory horror); Enjolras on a stool taken from the dining table; Combeferre lying on his stomach on the floor, in charge of the remote; Joly cross-legged on an oversized corduroy footstool that had a hinged lid so it doubled as a storage box; and Grantaire sitting on the back of the sofa, toes near Courf’s nose, beer can swinging in hand._

_“Courf just loves everyone,” Combeferre said. “I don’t think he cares about labels.”_

_Courfeyrac sneered. He was lounging on the sofa, his body taking up the whole sitting space, ankles rested on one armrest, his head on the other. Combeferre was describing him perfectly, in just a few words. He had a big heart and a mind in the gutter at times, but he was good._

_“I am a free soul. I’m pretty, people are pretty. Why not celebrate that? I’m respectful, though. I’m not some slut who’ll take anyone.”_

_Eponine wrinkled her nose in mild disgust. “Whatever.”_

_Courf waved his hand and tapped Jehan on the shoulder. He was sitting on the carpet, back against the sofa, scanning the blurb on the back of a DVD._

_“I think Jehan here would make the sweetest dom, though, all considering,” he commented. “He’d be lovely; cater to you needs. With a few nice surprises, no doubt. As poetic between the sheets as he is in speech.”_

_Jehan turned rosy and his hands crept to his face, covering it, but there was no hiding the knowing smile between his fingers. Cosette looked between the pair of them, glancing then at her boyfriend. Combeferre raised his brow. Courfeyrac just shrugged and nudged Jehan playfully._

_“Oh, God, make them stop, it’s disgusting! There are women here!” Grantaire put two fingers in his mouth and pretended to gag, mocking._

_“Hey!” Cosette snapped, pale hair falling off her shoulder._

_“Seriously, we don’t mind…” Eponine muttered._

_Courf narrowed his eyes, getting an uncomfortable view of Grantaire’s inner thigh considering his position, and sat up, challenging._

_“You can hardly talk, always staring at Enj like you want to eat him or something.”_

_All eyes turned to Enjolras, who studied his shoes, as though hoping an escape route would appear between his socks. Grantaire chewed his tongue, glowering at Courf, who only continued, mouth curving into a sly grin of revenge._

_“Find his sensitive spot and make him whimper. Don’t you wonder what kind of noise he’d make? Once you’ve pinned him down, after he’s tried to fight back. ‘Cos you know he would. Think he’d scream? I do,” he turned his attention to a clearly bristling Enjolras. “I bet you’re a screamer, Enj. Louder than you realise. Make the neighbours horny just listening to you.”_

_“Can we not discuss this?” Enjolras asked quietly._

_“Courf, quit teasing,” Joly warned, noticing the discomfort between the two in question. Funny, he never spilled the details on his adventures. He hadn’t spoken of his relationships much. Nobody questioned them; he seemed happy and that was what mattered._

_“Yeah, I have to sleep in the same place as the guy,” Combeferre said. “Do you have any idea what he’s like when he’s flustered? I won’t get any sleep.”_

_“Oh, c’mon, I’m just messing with them.”_

_Cosette moved off of Marius. Courf clicked his tongue, victorious. Grantaire kicked his shoulder. Despite knowing it was just banter, it still made him anxious and extremely hot under the collar. He crossed his legs the best he could and rolled his sleeves further up his shoulders, even though he was wearing a tee. He couldn’t even bear to look at Enjolras, knowing he’d probably gone the same shade as the posters he made. He felt disgraced, soiled. How could Courf just bring something like that up so casually? In front of his muse? Yes, he was just verbalising his exact train of subconscious, but it made him out to be a lustful predator, a person he did not want come across as. It was different when he said those things, but anyone else? He felt shameful. His Apollo would never see him in a respectful light._

 

Despite constant observation, Grantaire hadn't felt the urge for violence, no such heaves of venom had kickstarted something primal in his mind in recent times. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this. He was pleased Enjolras was alright, but in some ways he felt just as ignored and empty. He needed to feel capable. The anger made him bristle, turned him into a monster fit only for Victorian literature. When he was mad, he was wild. As savage as his Antinous. But no threats were posed to his muse, no idiots tried to take him down a peg or two. He seemed safe and at the top of his game and gave off a light so astounding, Grantaire was sure it would be described as angelic. However, there were bouts of deflation, as though, for some sickening reason, the light wasn’t enough. As though he needed more than just Enjolras’ illuminations to sustain him. This frightened him, and so he pushed it to the back of his tumultuous mind to fester. The only solution was that he just needed to make the light shine even brighter, to turn it from a star, to a sun. 

_The sun will burn you, Toad. Burn you into dust._

 

**

There was smoke on his tongue and Joly's voice broke him out of a daydream.

"R! That stuff will kill you! Don't you know what's in those things?! You’re making yourself vulnerable to loads of conditions from blowing those!" he lectured desperately, seizing the cigarette from Grantaire's stained hands, tossing it to the granite ground and crushing it beneath his shoes. Even with his change of lifestyle, Grantaire still found himself succumbing to the vague stupors brought on by smoking.

Grantaire huffed and thrust his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. "Rich coming from the guy who's probably caught an STD from all those threesomes you've been having," he countered moodily, mooching against the wall of the school flanked by trashcans, making rubbery noises with his lips. What was Joly doing around this part anyway? Everyone knew this was where junkies went to get their fixes, and Grantaire was no different. This place was like Pandemonium for Joly’s kind. 

Joly scowled, but there was no hiding the brilliant scarlet that darkened his cheeks. "I haven't, and, and it's none of your business anyway. Jeez, I'm just looking out for your health." he said through gritted teeth. 

Grantaire only pulled his hat further down his head, flattening his hair, scuffing his shoes on the pavement. His trainers were wrecked. He didn’t care for his lessons anymore. He was feeling drained and lifeless. He wanted to talk to Enjolras, but he didn’t know how to, without seeming too forward. Or, in other words, too out of character. Enjolras was too focussed on his own lectures anyway about how lame the government was. Had they ever been anything else? 

Spots of rain made damp dots on his sleeves and his trousers, and Joly squinted at the grey clouds above them. Spring showers were turning into April floods. 

"Are you coming to class?" Joly pestered. "The others are wondering where you are. Sent me to come and get you. Thought you'd be here."

Grantaire's glare was steely. "Fine. Whatever."

A bell sounded. Joly left without him; he felt uneasy around Grantaire, something about him had become unsettling. More rain fell, staining Grantaire's skin like tears or acid. He sighed and made for class.

 

**

He sat at his desk, sketching idly, half-hearted. He was trying to draw a position study, but he had no model. He tried to remember the lines that created his Apollo, but his mind was fogged with frustration. Everyone else around him painted in a creative daze, spoiling their canvases with colours and lines that expressed…oppression, he realised. No-one in the room was painting their thoughts or their imaginations or their desires or their longings. They were painting what the course asked of them. Their people were impressive, toning perfect, hair impeccable; too impeccable. There were no lights in the eyes of their portraits. Their surroundings detailed fantastic, extraordinary landscapes, but only aesthetically. The trees were mere stickers, they did not grow. Buildings touched the sky but no smog crawled around their rooftops, no ominous aura about those steel giants. They lacked passion, dynamism. They weren’t creating, they were copying. Grantaire looked down at his own sketchbook, the blank paper daunting, the dry watercolours offering no suggestions.

Grantaire suddenly understood. Without his muse, he had no talent. But why couldn’t he conjure up his face in his mind? Had the light faded too fast? It had been a while since their last conversation. Perhaps it needed recharging? However, had he just had an epiphany? Surely that was a sign, when he noticed how pushed into a system they all were, his almost out-of-body experience, that his Apollo’s character had rubbed off on him. He could spot flaws and injustice, now. He saw with clarity, for once. He just couldn’t function.

The professor had given up patrolling his class of zombies and settled behind his desk, flicking through pointless websites on his computer. Grantaire fumbled for his phone and tapped a message.

**G  
I hope our fearless leader doesn’t have an embarrassing pop ringtone.**

**

Political studies lecture hall. Rows of students. One third asleep. Another third trying not to. The final third thinking about lunch.

“Um, hey,” Marius bumped Enjolras’ leg with his knee under the desk to get his attention. Unlike Marius, however, Enjolras’ attention was not easy to tear away from the presentation. Marius kicked his calf, causing Enjolras to frown at him. “Your phone.”

“Keep watch,” the student hissed and checked his pocket. Sure enough, the small LED on the mobile flashed an urgent red. Swiftly, he unlocked the phone and looked at the notification. He rolled his eyes.

“Who is it?” Marius whispered.

“Grantaire.”

**E  
Get lost. I’m in the middle of something.**

And then instantly:

**G  
Maybe I can help? I need stress relief too, you know.**

Enjolras groaned inwardly with regret. How did Grantaire get his number anyway? Probably Courf.

**E  
I’m in a lecture.**

**G  
Why should that stop you? In public is kinky.**

**E  
Quit texting me.**

**G  
You were the one who replied in the first place. You COULD have ignored me.**

**E  
I plan to.**

“What’s he saying?” Marius was watching his friend eagerly.

Combeferre, who was sitting directly in front of the pair turned round. "What are you doing?"

“Nothing. Grantaire’s just being an idiot. As per.”

Marius browsed awkwardly several of the students behind them. He jerked a thumb at them. “They think you’re…sexting,” he murmured. 

Enjolras shot daggers at them, and they shrugged. One of them gave an encouraging thumbs-up. 

“No,” but there was a hot fluster pooling in his belly. 

**G  
You’ve gone quiet. Hot under the collar, Apollo?**

“You know, Cosette thinks you should be nicer to him,” Marius said out of the corner of his mouth, eyes front. The lecturer was eyeing them suspiciously, but continued to speak. 

“Yeah, well he’s going about it the wrong way, if he wants my attention. I’d be nicer to him if he stopped acting like a moron.”

“He means well. We know you’re a decent guy, Enj, it’s just that-”

“Would everyone just stop picking on me?!”

He said that a little too loud.

_Shit._

**

“Yeah, and it’s all his fault!”

Grantaire was offended by the accusing finger pointed at him. “How was it my fault?!”

“If you hadn’t texted me during class, none of it would have happened!” Enjolras fumed, still bitter over the confiscation of his phone. 

“You texted back!” 

“To be fair…you were talking, too,” Marius mentioned timidly, but Enjolras ignored him. He was angry, and there was no swaying his emotions in a different direction. 

The bus stop was cramped and the group huddled together from the drizzle for warmth. Courfeyrac was chewing gum, looking between the two disputers, unimpressed by their bickering. That’s all they ever did. It was getting tedious. Enjolras was standing out of the shelter, hands making all sorts of slicing and punching gestures as he articulated himself. 

“Now I’m not going to get it back til Friday! They can’t do that!” 

“Enjolras, calm down,” Combeferre tried to reason with him. “R isn’t totally to blame here.”

“See,” Grantaire stuck out his chin, trying to appear standoffish, but really his heart was racing. Apollo was talking to him! But his Apollo was angry. It was the professor, the one who took the phone, that was preventing him from being calm. That was it. 

The red came to him again, the anger. Oh, how he’d missed it. It was one drug he didn’t ever want to give up. His soul burned, shrieking. His conscience took a holiday. This was it. Another problem that needed to be solved. 

He’d forgotten he was staring. It was hard not to.

“Quit looking at me like that,” Enjolras barked. “Are you even listening? This is all-”

_The professor’s fault, I know. Let me handle it, my muse, let me make your life simpler again._

Enjolras huffed and stuffed his hands in his pockets, and Combeferre pulled him under the shelter as the bus came down the street. They all piled on, except Grantaire.

“Hey, R, you comin’ or what?” Jehan asked, as the busdriver nagged at him to hurry up.

“Um…no. I, uh, left my art stuff in the workshop,” Grantaire lied. “I’ll catch the next one.”

“Oh. Okay,” Jehan seemed upset. “Don’t get caught in the rain. If you want a lift, Joly’s, er, friend has a car. If you just give him a text or anything…”

“Got it. See ya,” Grantaire waved him off and the doors closed and the bus disappeared into the Paris rain.

Grantaire turned at looked up at the school. The anger growled in his mind and flexed out like a restless feline. The light was calling him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> build up chapter. Gonna be brutal next time, 'course.


	6. Stockholm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick murder chapter

Grantaire stalked the halls of the university. He knew the way. He knew which room. He knew which guy. 

_Smash his light ___

___Save your light. It's just like a game. Break all of the bulbs and steal the energy. That way his light shines brighter. That way your darkness flees._ _ _

__The hallways seemed to grow, stretch out as he walked. His stride was confident, his head held high. His spine was straight and his nerve endings buzzed with electric energy that tantalised his skin like he brushed the back of his hand against a frayed wire. The anger had seeped into every spare space inside of him, swelling up in a surge behind his eyes, dying his vision a shade of red. He could feel his mouth twitch into a slight smile. But it wasn't pleasant._ _

___Only a little further. Turn left here. Yes. Ignore the janitor; you forgot supplies, remember? You are innocent._ _ _

___You can be bad for me, though, Toad._ _ _

__He was shaking when he reached the door of the politics classroom. It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't have a plan. Why should he, though? He didn't have a plan the last time. But even so, he began to get nervous, a strange sort of first-date anxious. He wiped his sweating palms on his trousers. This was wrong. Not having a plan. But he was impulsive, why should he care about plans? If he planned, he would over think. And if he over thought then he would never achieve his goal. Nothing would ever get done, because other emotions would become involved, and if Enjolras had taught him anything it was that emotions should not get crossed over. That just made things messy. He was angry. He had to stay angry. If he started to feel anything else he may as well turn around right then and not bother._ _

__He blew a strand of stray hair from his face and pulled the beanie from his head, stuffing it in front pouch-pocket of his hoodie._ _

__Grantaire opened the door to the study hall and stepped over the threshold._ _

__It was empty. Empty chairs in empty rows in an empty hall. Each chair, he knew, would be the throne of dozens of empty people with empty ambitions and empty lives. Desperate people scrambling for something to fill that emptiness with. But failing. Education was like sand; the majority trickled through their fingers once cracks and gaps were found, and little was retained._ _

__The professor saw him. He was a just-looking man, with a stern brow, and slicked crew-cut hair. He was filing notes into a black leather satchel, muttering under his breath. Grantaire couldn't make out the words._ _

___He's praying._ _ _

__The professor looked up and narrowed his brown and unimportant eyes. The whites were slightly yellow._ _

__"Sorry, can I help you? You don't look like one of my students." His voice was horrible. The type possessed by one who can either choose to be condescending or downright rudely blunt._ _

___He doesn't recognise any of his students, I'll bet. He doesn't remember your Apollo, Toad. Smash his light. He doesn't deserve one. He's in the way._ _ _

__"I'm not, I just came to get something that belongs to my friend," Grantaire explained._ _

___Why are you giving him a chance?_ _ _

__"Well, class ended ten minutes ago, I'm off the clock," the professor continued to pile paper into the case. He snapped it shut and fumbled with the tab. "I'm sure it can wait until tomorrow."_ _

__"But, it's just his phone."_ _

__"I'm sure he can do without it-"_ _

___But I can't._ _ _

__"-And if he wanted it that bad he should have come to get it himself, not leave you to. Not much of a friend getting you to do the dirty work. Coward if he can't stand up to his own professor. Is it Enjolras, your friend? I bet it is. You look like one of his puppies; one he beats senseless, one he shows only some care for and then starves for days, weeks on end. One who he leaves out on the street to get run over or to die of thirst or get eaten alive by the big bad world. But you still go and slink back to him. You still defend him and you still love him. Why is that? Is he your Stockholm?"_ _

__Those were not the words the professor said. In fact, they ended at 'get it himself'. But Grantaire heard more. The Darkness had come back and it had opened his ears._ _

__"Is he your Stockholm?"_ _

___Yes. Yes. He is._ _ _

__

__**_ _

__

__It happened fast. It always did. Once again his mind left his body and let the muscles and the bones do the work. He felt every blow shudder down his arms, and it felt like power._ _

__It was the leather satchel. The strap around his neck and pulled tight so he struggled and choked before he was silent. Veins pulsing violently in his neck and his temples, hands grappling for something to support himself, like students flailing for success. His eyes had bulged, the blood had surged to his forehead. His mouth gaped, open but not screaming. He couldn’t scream. The black strap was strong. The professor's breathing was not._ _

__Grantaire took a step back and a deep breath. He looked at the professor, face forever frozen in fear. His hands were curled up around the black strap, as though still trying to claw it away. His legs were in a funny position, unnatural. His body was twisted. Grantaire had heard dead people looked as though they were sleeping. The professor didn’t look like he was sleeping. He looked vulnerable. Hideous, even. He wondered what his last thought was. He wondered if his ghost was wandering the room now, staring in shock over his shoulder. His conscience settled back into his skull and the anger evaporated before they could tussle. Then, the guilt stabbed into his stomach. He wanted to retch again, but he pinched his nose and blinked back tears. He bundled his hands in his hair and suddenly regretted taking his beanie off. His friends would hate him. They wouldn’t realise what these deeds meant to him. They would never understand the light he needed to preserve, its influence and its power. They’d never know. They wouldn’t put their arms around him and rock him in comfort. They would turn him in, they’d spit on his grave._ _

___Don’t cry, Toad. You eliminated a problem. You helped me. I will love you some day, Toad. Grantaire, you are good._ _ _

__And the guilt went away. His insides became solid again, no longer water and sick. No doubt, however, that would return in the morning like a hangover. He felt settled, then, accepting. Yes. He had done his Apollo, his muse, his Stockholm right._ _

__Grantaire bundled his hand in sleeve and opened the drawer of the professor's desk and got Enjolras' mobile. He paused for a moment and raised the phone to his face -thanking a god he didn't believe in that he didn't have difficulty figuring out the password was MUSAIN- and took a photo of himself, smiling weakly and winking. He set the selfie as his contact picture, pocketed the phone, and left._ _


	7. Drowning

"Hey, E, I'm making tea. You want some?" Combeferre meandered away from the rainy stained window pane towards the kitchen. He rubbed his arms, glad he was indoors. It was six-thirty in the evening. 

Enjolras shrugged, eyes fixated on a notebook in his lap. He was sketching on a hand-drawn map. He didn't need to trace; he knew every route by heart. "Yeah, I guess. Thanks."

"You're still in a mood about your phone?" Combeferre switched on the kettle and stretched up to get some teabags from an overhanging cupboard. 

"Yeah. Wouldn't you?"

"Maybe. R stayed behind to get his stuff, maybe he got yours? He didn't come home on the bus with us," Combeferre glanced out the window again. "Hope he got home okay. That's not nice weather."

"Mmm...maybe. Doubt it. Did you manage to get your paper on those moths handed in? Did you finish it?"

Combeferre smiled, proud. "Sure did! I think they're gonna publish it."

"That's great. Congratulations."

Combeferre went over to the couch with the two cups of tea. Enjolras' had so much milk in it, it was hardly tea anymore. But that's the way he liked it. He put Enjolras' cup on the coffee table and the boy lunged for it immediately, resting the notebook on his knees.

"Planning?" Combeferre nodded at the book. 

"The next plan of action against the uni is to occupy the street outside the Musain. It's a popular gathering place for students, so what better place? Oh, wait, maybe round the corner from rue de Turbigo?"

Ah, yes. Enjolras' plan to protest against student tuition fees. He'd come up with the idea the other week and hadn't shut up about it since. It sounded like a good attempt at getting their point finally listened to. Combeferre was eager to get involved, so long as no one got hurt.

"Are you gonna shut up in class next time?" Combeferre asked, part jokily, part serious.

Enjolras shrugged again. He was good at that. "Unless that ass of a teacher starts a debate about the strucure of our government again. Then I might need you to hold me back."

"Nah. Go for it. He's not the best. Could do with a reality check that not all of his students are brainwashed clones created by our oppressive and condescending society."

Enjolras glared at him. "Did you just quote me?"

Combeferre shot his roommate a knowing look over the lip of his cup, the heat fogging the lenses of his specs. Enjolras rolled his eyes and stuck out his thick lower lip, but his sigh was one of mock exasperation. 

"You need a new script, my friend," Combeferre pointed out, laughing, and pleased to see his friend in a less real stroppy mood, and preferring a false one.

"I need a new flatmate if you're going to slate me like that," Enjolras took a sip of his drink. "And one that makes better tea."

"I made it, like, 90% milk! Still too strong for our fearless Apollo?" Combeferre teased.

"Oh, don't you start. I keep telling him; I'm not a god! I'm just a guy."

"Yeah, I know; god's wouldn't still be relying on their parents to fork out rent money."

"Shut up. And you say I'm the cruel one?"

"Not cruel, never cruel," Combeferre defended himself. "I never said that."

"I do know the consequences of my actions and my comments, by the way."

"I never said you didn't."

"No, but Jehan says I don't. I know fine well how Grantaire feels when I speak frankly to him, but it's not my fault he takes it the way he does, and it's not going to change until he realises he has values! He's got them, he's just so half hearted. He'd be a great asset. He's got a lot of potential and that potential can make him happy. But if he doesn't realise it? What then?"

"He's too focussed on your assets."

"Now you sound like Courf. I'm just...worried. Have you not noticed he's been acting differently?"

"Mm. A little. Poor guy's just stressed. I'd love to help him but, and I have in the past, it's just, maybe he's capable of working things out on his own. He's not one for giving up easily. He learned that from you, y'know."

There was a knock on the door. Combeferre got up.

 

**

The walk home was hard, laborious. He dragged his feet across the pavement, carving his footprints into the concrete, carving his way through the grey and the red. He staggered, pressing forward as though going through a windstorm; stomach churning, hair flattened to his scalp by the rain that fell down in horizontal walls. His legs hurt, he'd walked all the way back from the school, not bothering to get a bus. He couldn't lift his head, only ploughed forward, carving and carving. His head was spinning, his eyes firmly on the floor. Carving, carving. The phone was like a lead brick in his pocket, weighing him down, a stark reminder of his guilt and his crime and his cause. It was the entire weight of Enjolras in his pocket; his power, the fragility of their relationship, the enormity of the next step forward.

Carving, carving.

He yawned, and when he closed his eyes he saw the professor. He realised he didn't care anymore. He didn't care if he was found. He cared about that light.

Carving, carving. The darkness filled those carvings, shadowing him as always as he came to the apartment block. There was no-one around.The street was empty; just rain and emptiness. Grantaire tilted his head up, feeling the rain shower down on him, drench him right through to the bone. He could see the window of Enjolras' apartment. He saw the slivers of gold light trickle from between the frame and the wall. The only light dripping into the grey and the red. Grantaire smiled at it as though it were the sun.

He walked into the apartment building and made his way up the stairs, carving carving. Every step made him feel a little bit lighter, a little bit happier. It was the light pulling him in. He was dripping all over the floor like he was a corpse just pulled from the river, but one that was slowly being revived with every movement. 

He was standing up straight by the time he reached the door of the flat, and he suddenly forgot all of his aches and his itches and his pains. He relaxed his shoulders. He smiled. The light trickled out from the under door and glowed on his toes. His trainers were soaked through. He knocked on the door and waited. Footsteps drew nearer and Combeferre opened the door to him. He blinked in surprise at the state of his soaked friend. 

"Oh my...R! What happened to you? Did you walk all this way in the rain?!"

But Grantaire was smiling. "Yeah. It wasn't that bad."

"Why didn't you get the bus or, or call Bousset? He's got a car; he could've picked you up," Combeferre took Grantaire by the shoulder and led him into the apartment. He then went through the hall and came back with a towel from the airing cupboard which he tossed to Grantaire. "Stay and dry off. I'll get you some tea, too."

Grantaire dried his face and ruffled his hair, showering water droplets onto the carpet. Enjolras was staring at him and had been as soon as he'd walked in the room, his face like a storm. There was a faint glow around his head, warm and reassuring. The fire behind his eyes struck ice into Grantaire's blood, however. He swallowed hard. Something wasn't right. 

Grantaire but his hand in his pocket and grasped the phone, smiling the best he could without throwing up or his heart bursting. The weight of the phone was daunting. He took it out and thrust it forward. 

"I, uh, got your phone back."

Combeferre grinned from the kitchen. 

Enjolras sat up, amazed, staring at Grantaire with even more bemusement. "You...I thought you were getting your art stuff."

"Well, I...actually, no. You were pretty pissed about not getting it back until Friday, so, I thought..."

Enjolras snatched the phone. Grantaire caught a glimpse of his chest below his V-neck and looked away hurriedly. The yellow light grew more vibrant. Enjolras wiped the screen. "How'd you get it?"

"I just took it. When the prof wasn't looking." his heart didn't race as he lied. He was cool, casual. He was right. 

"You stole it?" 

The light weakened. Grantaire stuttered, floundered. Shit shit shit.

"I thought you'd be happy."

"I-"

"He is," Combeferre finished for him, grin gone as he sensed the tension grow between them. 

Enjolras said nothing. Grantaire felt the darkness settle in his heart. He scowled, getting irritated to hide his fear. He'd come all this way to see his Apollo, to make him happy. Why wasn't it working?

"Okay, look, I could've been caught. I didn't have to go back there and get that, but I did, and I think you owe me."

"He is grateful, R," Combeferre assured, clutching a third cup of tea. 

"I want to hear him say it," Grantaire pointed at Enjolras, who rolled his eyes. Grantaire was panicking. The light had gone completely. He thought he regain control, he thought he could show dominance. His throat turned dry. "Go on, say it! Say thanks! Or are you incapable of showing any sort of gratitude?" Where was this coming from? He was supposed to be respectful of Enjolras, not confrontational. Desperation was setting him off course.

Enjolras unlocked his phone and startled. "You took a picture of yourself and set it as my wallpaper? Very mature."

Wallpaper? No! He'd meant it to be contact image! He set it to contact image, he was sure! His hands must have been shaky, slipped.

"Say thank you!" Grantaire urged, but Combeferre edged closer, standing between them to break their eye contact as though separating two hostile animals, suddenly defensive, and Enjolras flinched backwards as though he'd roared the words. There was a fleeting flicker of fear across his eyes. The light exploded in a bright flash and vanished again, bringing with it a vacuum that pulled in everything bright. Grantaire's pulse raced now. No. No no no don't go. Please don't go I didn't mean it. I'm sorry.

Enjolras threw up his hands, not deterred by Grantaire's barks. "Fine. Thank you, R, for retrieving my phone. There. I said it. Happy?"

Grantaire felt like curling up and bawling. It was too forced. He didn't mean it. He'd never mean it.

Suddenly, Combeferre was pressing against him, hands on his chest, fingers splayed, and he was saying something. A warning? No, 'back off' and 'calm down'. And Grantaire was shouting again, and then Combeferre was doubling over and groaning, the tea was spilled on the floor, the handle broke off the mug and Grantaire's feet were both on the ground again. Enjolras was standing up on the sofa, stance like he was still deciding whether to fly or fight. Grantaire smirked. Fly, little bright bird.

"At least I can actually express something other than anger! At least I can tell when someone's hurt! At least I have a heart!"

Was he really saying that? Grantaire, him, really saying those things? And then a reply, but it was muddled and morphed, because he wasn't thinking clearly. He was aching all over; he wasn't appreciated. Everything he was doing was for nothing. Why didn't he see?! Enjolras was still shrieking at him, vein pulsing in his neck, fingers clenched. Then there was a flash of light, so blinding Grantaire reeled. He opened his eyes, and pain shot in a hot stab across his cheek. It wasn't light. It was knuckles.

"Enjolras!" Combeferre grabbed the seething blonde, who looked like a bull about to charge. "Go into the hall!"

Grantaire watched in stunned silence as Enjolras retreated to the hallway. He brought his own hand to his face and winced. Combeferre was looking at him, jaw set.

"I think it's best you leave, too."

Combeferre was expendable; bless his literary soul but Grantaire wasn't guilty about upsetting him. He glared over his shoulder at Enjolras who was pacing the length of the corridor, grumbling to himself. 

He turned on his heel and stormed out of the flat, slamming the door behind him. 

"Enjolras get the fuck out here," Combeferre demanded, and the blonde visionary slinked back into the living room, sulky. "What was that about?! Before he came wandering in you were concerned. And then he shows up and you treat him like you suddenly don't care and you punch him?! Why, Enj? All the guy did was walk about a mile in the rain just to to give you your phone back. He's trying, Enj, to repair whatever friendship you have, or whatever it is you call this....thing. Acquaintanceship, hell, frenemies, I don't know! But at least he's trying and you clearly aren't. I don't know if your emotions are screwed up or what but you need to fix it! Show that you were grateful!"

"I am grateful!"

"Then why didn't you tell him?!"

"I...You know, I..."

Combeferre folded his arms over and just watched. But Enjolras couldn't finish his sentence.

"Yeah. Well, I hate to argue with you, but think about it this way; unless you treat him like an actual human being, it's not going to matter how you treat me, or Jehan, or Courf or the rest of us. People'll just ignore that and think you're a douche -which you sort of were. Do you want people to think that? You want them on your side, they want someone they can trust, someone who treats people fairly. Do you want that guy from the basement to be right? Cos...y'know, maybe he is. Maybe you are a bit hypocritical."

"Combeferre! You know I'm not like that! You know there's more to me than how I treat Grantaire!"

"And there's more to R than the belligerent drunk. But if you refuse to realise that 100% of the time..." Combeferre shrugged.

Enjolras hesitated. "'Ferre. I'm sorry." 

An unexpected moment of vulnerability. His voice was soft, cracked. The last thing he wanted was Combeferre, his best friend, to be mad at him. Combeferre picked up the towel Grantaire had left behind and folded it in his arms. He sighed regretfully and shook his head. His chest ached, but he'd been easy on Enjolras for too long.

"Not right now, Enj. I've got stuff to do."

He left the room. Enjolras heard his bedroom door close over. He stood there on his own in the middle of the living room, turning the phone over in his hands. He unlocked the screen and Grantaire smiled cheekily up at him. 

Enjolras hurled the phone against the wall, grabbed a cushion from the sofa and screamed into it, louder and louder until his eyes and his head and his jaw hurt and he slumped against the coffee table, exhausted.

And there was a deafening silence.

 

**

 

Courf had ducked out into the rain to grab two microwave meals from the corner shop down the road. As he hurried back into the apartment building, Grantaire passed him, looking a state, bruised.

"Hey, R, you alright?" Courfeyrac tried to stop him. "You're soaked."

Grantaire stormed past him without another word. Courf watched him leave and plunge into the hellish weather. 

As he continued up the stairs he heard Combeferre and Enjolras arguing, and then muffled screaming followed by a deathy void of sound. Goosebumps raised on his arms and he unlocked the door to his own apartment. He swanned in, dumping the plastic bags on the kitchen counter. He rubbed his hands; carrying those things hurt his fingers.

"Jehan!" he called out in a sing song, "Yo! Prouvaire! Ferre and Enj are bickering so don't expect any updates on the street occupyin'. Jehan?"

There was no answer from his friend. 

"Jehan?" Courfeyrac called out again, growing concerned. He padded cautiously through the flat. Jehan's bedroom was empty, his book abandoned on the pillow. Courf's room was unoccupied, too.

Then he heard it: running water. He opened the door to the bathroom and his breath hitched. Colour drained from his face and tears welled, hot in his eyes.

"Oh, Jehan..."


	8. Tango

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music listened to (on repeat. I recommend listening to them whilst reading.).  
> -El Tango De Roxanne: From the start up until the break where Cosette and Marius are talking.
> 
> \- That Home AND To Build a Home (by the Cinematic Orchestra): The scenes that don’t feature Grantaire. i.e- Courf holding Jehan on the bathroom floor and from where Marius is reflecting on Cosette to the end.

Chaos.

That was all everything was. His head? Fucked. His relationship with Enjolras, Combeferre? Fucked beyond repair. He should've beaten 'Ferre to death right there and then. It was Combeferre who had stepped in. It was Combeferre who got to see Enjolras all the time. It was Combeferre who stood between them. He had been reckless; he'd let one of the problems slip past. Enjolras would've hated him for doing it, punching the moth-obsessed scholar to a pulp like that right in front of him, but he'd be forgiven sure enough, as soon as Enjolras realised what a good deed he'd done. 

Grantaire walked through the chaos, the typhoon of thoughts that battered him sideways, pressed angrily through the blizzard, the hail of hurt and confusion and angst and self-destruction. He didn't care about the light. The light was gone. He was stupid, foolish to believe he could savour it. He let the dark consume him once and for all. He let it take him over, let it infect and plague him, poison his blood and contaminate his bones. He was a walking disease; he brought nothing but death and destruction and depletion. Behind him a near-visible odour of hate and repulsiveness followed in his wake. He ought to be shot on the spot. He ought to do it himself. The black had turned to red; boiling, bubbling, a deep, deadly scarlet. He wanted to see blood. His own blood. He wanted to rip out his organs, flay his own skin. He was worthless.

_You're worthless, Toad. I lied to you. I'll never love you. YOU'RE NOTHING. YOU'VE NEVER BEEN ANYTHING. YOU'RE JUST A SHELL. YOU WERE BORN A HUSK. ALL YOU DO IS CONSUME. YOU CONSUME NOTHING BUT DESPAIR AND LONELIENESS. I LAUGH AT YOU, TOAD. YOU WERE NEVER ANYTHING TO ME. YOU NEVER WILL BE ANYTHING TO ME. YOU ARE A PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A CORPSE._

Grantaire clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms so they left bruises. He bit his tongue until he tasted iron. He walked through the drizzle. He knew where to go. He wanted to get lost. 

The route to Montparnasse's place seemed shorter. It was just by the school, cramped in between a funeral parlour that had all of its windows boarded up and a struggling drycleaners. As he walked to it, he could feel the eyes of the buildings on him, judging, scornful, pitiful. The stonework gossiped about him. The cobbles he walked on jeered behind his back. Passing people shook their heads at him. They watched and watched and watched and Grantaire couldn't shut out their voices. He pressed his hands to his ears and pulled on the flesh there but he couldn't block out the voices.

_Poor soul._

_Lost thing._

_Shit-pile._

_That guy is fucked up._

_He should be in a rubber room._

_You are a killer._

_You should be shot._

_You are nothing._

_You are a danger to society._

_How can you live with yourself?_

_How can he still walk with his head up?_

_Why is he still breathing?_

_He'll never amount to anything if he keeps wallowing._

_There's a river near by. All you need are some concrete shoes._

_How can you look in the mirror?_

_You are hated._

_You are vile._

_Disgusting thing._

_Your mother must have cried when you were born. She must have thought she was to blame. You must have made her hate herself._

_Apathetic toad._

_We'll never love you._

He knocked on the door of Montparnasse's, squeezing himself between the doorframe. The doorknob was rusty, the wood was peeling. He could smell the unmistakeable ashes of his dealer's favourite smoke. Grantaire fumbled in his pocket for whatever money he had there. He realised with sickness that he didn't have enough. There was no longer in a phone in his pocket to weigh him down, only the bruise on his face as a mark of his shame. He knocked again, turning frantic. He knew he was desperate. He knew he was shameful. But he didn't care. He didn't care about anything anymore. The light was gone. He had sunk.

The letterbox flapped open. Music, heavy and thumping, drifted from the gap. A pair of fingers, thin and bony and stained with yellow, stuck out.

"Who is it?"

"R," Grantaire's voice was choked. He had been crying. The tears were like acid on his face.

The letterbox clattered shut and Grantaire's heart sank for a moment. "I know I don't have enough but-" he started to shout, but the door swung open before he could finish.

The long, spindly frame of Montparnasse stood proud, elegant and intimidating on the doorstep, hands deep in his pockets, a cigarette sticking out from the corner of his thin pale lips. His eyes glittered with venomous glee. His hair was slicked back with oil that gleamed wetly in the dirty orange light from the hallway behind him and on his head balanced an old-fashioned top hat he believed made him look dapper when worn with his tight jeans, high boots and waistcoat. He looked Grantaire up and down and smirked at the snivelling sight. Montparnasse's cheeks were hollow, and when he smiled the skin on them contorted into an ugly grin. The grin a cat has before it snaps the head off of a mouse. Grantaire could see the staircase behind him that stretched up to his den; foggy, cramped, full of his 'wares'; women, booze and grams.

"Well, well. If it isn't my beloved R," he said, voice like cream. "You look well rough, mate. No 'fense."

Grantaire clasped his hands together. "I need more."

"More?" Montparnasse flicked ash from the end of his roll-up. "I gave you a good couple grams last time, mate. And your first spike. You like it?"

The needle. He'd taken it months ago. It was probably still buried in the bushes outside the apartment building. "I...I flushed them," Grantaire admitted.

Montparnasse arched his brow, managing to look both surprised and suspicious. "You tried to give it up, huh?"

Grantaire nodded meekly. He felt so small, so inferior to Montparnasse. He felt like the scum he was. So small, so easy to crush. 

"So why you back here?"

"I want more."

"Didn't work out how you planned, huh?" Montparnasse tisked. It was like being put in front of a headmaster who knew you had done wrong, but still treated you nicely, only succeeding in making you feel one hundred times worse. "Can't say I'm upset. It's nice to see you again. So what do you want?"

"All of it."

"Woah, woah, steady there, mate," Montparnasse leered. "Thought you said you didn't have enough."

"I don't. I just, I thought maybe I could, get some now and then, then come back later with, with the pay, I..." Grantaire stammered, his hands shaking as he showed Montparnasse the weak couple of Euros in his pocket. "Please."

Montparnasse regarded him with judgemental eyes. He shook his head. "Can't help you here, R. You gotta have the cash. Gotta know I can trust ya."

"You can! You can, I swear!"

"Listen. R. You're a good guy, but you're not my best customer. There are other guys. Guys with more dough. They're worth a lot more to me. Come back when you've got the money, mate. I'll talk to you then."

Montparnasse began to close the door over, but Grantaire jammed his foot between it and the frame. 

"I'll tell the police about you!" he shouted desperately.

Montparnasse smirked and chuckled. "No, mate, you won't."

"Please! Please, just some! I, I need it! I’ve done some things you wouldn’t believe and I- Please!" Grantaire banged on the door as it closed over.

Fingers poked through the letterbox. "Sorry, R. You know the rules."

Grantaire crouched and pressed his mouth to the letterbox, yelling after Montparnasse some more. "'Parnasse! No! I...Please!"

But he got no answer. He watched through the thin slit in the door as Montparnasse walked up the staircase, vanishing into the gloom and pulsing music.

Grantaire gripped his hands in his hair tight, inhaling sharply through his teeth. No. This couldn't be happening. He needed...he needed something. He needed a drink. He needed to drink until he forgot. He turned on his heel and bolted through the night to the bar on the opposite end of the street from The Musain. He sprinted through groups of tourists lost in the dark, he crashed in bins, he ran across the road without waiting for the cars to pass. His breathing was laboured; his heart was speeding a thousand miles an hour, maybe more. His vision swam, he lost his hat, and his legs couldn't keep up with his feet. 

_I have to forget. I have to forget. I have to...I have to drink. I have to drink because...I have to drink until I...I have to. I have to!_

_Go faster!_

_YOU CAN'T RUN FAST ENOUGH, TOAD. YOU WILL NEVER ESCAPE. WHY DON'T YOU JUST RUN INTO TRAFFIC? SEE IF YOU CAN RACE CARS LIKE A DOG. ___

__He felt as though he was tied up in ribbons that pulled him back if he tried to press forward. He felt as though he was running in a nightmare. He felt like he was running into-_ _

__"Watch where you're go- R?"_ _

__Grantaire rubbed his eyes and regained his balance, gawking at the figure he had crashed into under the streetlight. The solid being of the person had jolted him back into reality, shaken his head until he could think a little clearer. It was Marius. With Cosette on his arm. She was wearing a yellow dress with a black ribbon bow around the middle. What were they doing out at this time?_ _

__"Oh, s, sorry, Marius," Grantaire mumbled his apology, groaning._ _

__"What are you doing here?" Marius asked and peered at Grantaire. "Have you been in a fight?"_ _

__Grantaire hid his face with his hand, turning away a little, uncomfortable under Marius' scrutiny. He had nothing against Marius except his constant babbling about Cosette. But that was just envy._ _

__"I, I'm just heading to, to the pub," Grantaire explained hurriedly. His words were thick, slurred, like he was trying to speak with a mouth full of tar._ _

__"Have you been drinking?" Cosette asked._ _

__"NO! WHY DOES EVERYONE THINK THAT IS ALL I DO?! I HAVE A LIFE, YOU KNOW! THERE IS MORE TO IT THAN ALCOHOL! YOU HARDLY KNOW ME! YOU HARDLY KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT ME, YOU CAN'T EVEN START TO JUDGE ME, SO SHUT THE FUCK UP AND STICK YOUR OPINIONS UP YOUR BOYFRIEND'S ASS, KAY?!"_ _

__And all of a sudden, at the sight of that girl's round and pretty face turning shocked and upset, the anger and desperation fled. There was only a bleak sadness and an overwhelming confusion. Cosette paled and clutched Marius' hand harder. She stared in stunned silence, mouth slightly agape, eyes turning red. Marius squared up to Grantaire protectively._ _

__"What is _wrong_ with you?!" he shouted defiantly. _ _

__"I don't, I don't know, there's nothing, I...I didn't mean to, I, I'm sor-" Grantaire started to say, but Marius cut him off._ _

__"No. You're not. That was totally uncalled for. Go home, Grantaire."_ _

__"I can't," Grantaire was sobbing. He wasn't angry anymore. He was just confused and small and afraid. "I, I can't go home..."_ _

__"Then get away from us. And stay the hell away from my girlfriend in the future."_ _

__"Marius, wait, I think he's crying..." Cosette observed anxiously._ _

__"Go home. Go away. Go and get help. _ _Go and kill yourself, Toad__."_ _

__Grantaire choked. Marius didn't say that. Marius would never say that. The darkness made him say that. His judgement was being clouded. He had to go. He had to forget._ _

__He ran off._ _

___Can't run forever, Toad._ _ _

__***_ _

__Cosette sniffed._ _

__"God. I don't know what must've come over him..." Marius muttered, looking after Grantaire as he ran away. He cupped Cosette's face. "Are you alright?"_ _

__"Yeah. He just startled me a little."_ _

__Marius kissed her cheek. "I'm sorry."_ _

__"He seemed like such a nice person when you introduced me to him."_ _

__"He usually is mild mannered. Except...I don't know. Sometimes, Enjolras thinks he's an idiot."_ _

__"Enjolras thinks everyone's an idiot," Cosette remarked with a solemn smile that faded as soon as it arrived. "Is it me?"_ _

__Marius cocked his head curiously. "What?"_ _

__"Everyone I've ever known to be kind has left me. In one way or another. My mother; honest and compassionate and gentle, according to Papa. I lost her when I was young, as you know. Papa; much the same, is losing his head in his old age. Now, R. Do I drive the people around me mad? Do I make them ill, or something? Do I make them angry?"_ _

__Her voice trembled with emotion. Marius could tell this wasn't something she'd just considered now._ _

__"Cosette...no. God, no. Never. I'm still with you."_ _

__"But, what if you go, too? What if you start to fade away? Maybe it's only a matter of time before you tire of me and I, like, infect you, or you think about leaving me. I'm cursed, Marius! I must be! To have nice things rot around me!"_ _

__It worried Marius to see Cosette suddenly change from a ray of sunshine to perplexed and struggling with emotions she didn't quite know how to make sense of. He suddenly realised, with his stomach plummeting into his shoes, that he didn't know Cosette as well as he thought he did. He embraced her._ _

__"You aren't cursed. Cosette, I promise you, I promise you I'll never go away."_ _

__"But all you see is happy lil' ol' me. Most of the time. Except now. You don't see what goes on in my head. I want to tell you, Marius. I want you to know...I have troubles, too. Maybe...Maybe because I'm seen as happy, maybe when they see me as sad...maybe that's when it starts."_ _

__"Cosette! What's gotten into you? I mean it! I don't know what you're talking about!"_ _

__Cosette bit her lip and held both of her boyfriend's hands, looking him straight in the eye. "Can we go home? I want to talk to you."_ _

__"Am I in trouble?"_ _

__"I want to tell you things, Marius. I want to try and see if it starts when I tell you things."_ _

__He kissed her, holding her tightly. "Cosette. I love you. I'll never leave you, I promise."_ _

__***_ _

__

__Eponine folded her apron away and hung it up by the door of The Musain. She looked at it sadly. She felt so confined. Marius and his blondie, whiny girlfriend had left just a few minutes ago. What did he see in her? God knows. She had an annoying voice and a weird smile - the kind where the lips stretched back so much you could actually see gums- and she was probably after him just for his grandfather's money. Whereas she, Eponine, was humble and a good listener. How many afternoons had she spent in Marius' company just listening to him warble on about that Cosette girl? She'd lost count. He never really opened his eyes to look at her. His eyes were open, but they weren't _open._ They were with that Cosette girl. Eponine scowled at the apron. Whatever. She had to forget about him. She had her brother to look after and a job to keep and a father to avoid. That's why she wasn't going to go straight up to her room above the cafe yet._ _

__She fetched her black jacket and changed her shoes, favouring boots with a kitten heel instead of flimsy plimsolls that didn't match her dress anyway. Brushing her hair with her hands, she buttoned up her coat and turned off all the lights in the cafe. She then stepped out into the bitterness of the night. It had stopped raining. It was still a bit light; summer was coming, but the streetlamps were just on. She started walking down the street towards the pub. She didn't have many friends; she could always pick some up at the bar. She'd done it plenty of times before._ _

__As she approached the pub, humming a song she didn't quite remember the name of in her head and thinking of nothing in particular, she saw him. The crazy-haired guy from the cafe basement that night. The one with the crush on that hot blonde dude. What was his name again? She remembered him being in the room when they met for movie nights, but he was never really involved. He was a side-character. He was standing outside the pub, just looking up at the sign. Not moving or saying anything. Just looking at it, like he was hypnotised. Eponine frowned._ _

__"Um... Hello?" she said warily, walking closer, arms folded across her chest. If he tried anything funny, she knew how to execute a pretty good right hook. "Hey. Weirdo."_ _

__The boy blinked and looked round at her, eyes large as though caught in headlights. The whites were riddled with red spiderwebs._ _

__"Hey. Are you on drugs?" Eponine asked._ _

__The boy laughed. It was a sad sound that could barely be classed as a laugh. More of a flat attempt at a chuckle. "No."_ _

__"Are you drunk?"_ _

__"Not yet."_ _

__"Why are you staring at the sign?"_ _

__The boy shrugged. "You're the girl from the cafe."_ _

__"I am."_ _

__"I can't remember your name."_ _

__"I can't remember yours."_ _

__"Maybe we should keep it that way."_ _

__"Maybe."_ _

__They lapsed into silence. A few drunks staggered out of the pub, singing loudly and wobbling their way along the pavement. The crazy-haired boy watched them instead, his face turning pale green._ _

__"Are you going to be sick?" Eponine asked when she noticed._ _

__The boy shook his head._ _

__"You look really rough."_ _

__"That's the second time someone's said that to me this evening," and there was that strange laugh again. It was more like an exhale than anything. "Why are you talking to me?"_ _

__Good question. "I've got no-one else to talk to."_ _

__"Me neither."_ _

__"Don't you have your boyfriend to talk to?"_ _

__The boy said nothing._ _

__"Did you have a fight? Is that why you have that bruise on your face?"_ _

__"You ask a lot of questions."_ _

__"Well you're not answering any of them so..."_ _

__"You shouldn't be talking to me."_ _

__"I just told you I don't have anyone else _to_ talk to so..."_ _

__"Stop ending your sentences with 'so....'. It's annoying."_ _

__Eponine unfolded her arms and put them on her hips. She had to admit, she kind of liked the weirdo. She smiled._ _

__"Do you want to get a drink with me?" she asked, before she could catch herself. He was a bit weird. Surely she should be cautious. But, then again, she was lonely._ _

__"Drink with you?"_ _

__"With me. If you try and make the moves on me without permission, I'll scream, though, so..."_ _

__The boy smiled awkwardly. "Alright.”_ _

__***_ _

__Courfeyrac cradled the withering flower in his arms in the cold of the bathroom. The boy buried his face in Courfeyrac's shirt, staining it with ugly tears that shuddered down his spine. He gripped onto Courfeyrac's clothes, a child once more, clinging for dear life. Courfeyrac kicked the electric razor as far away as he could, heard it clatter against the pedal bin, and enveloped Jehan completely; feeling the rough stubble of the remaining hair tickle his neck. He couldn’t hold tight enough. He wanted to shield Jehan from everything. Keep out the bad thoughts. He felt…guilty._ _

___They listened to the boiling hot water run down the sink for what felt like hours, exchanging no words. He only prayed Jehan didn't see him crying too._  
***  
“You know, when I saw you standing outside, I took pity on you!” yelled the girl whose name he couldn’t quite remember. “I thought: there’s a guy who is like me. There’s a guy who doesn’t know what he’s doing with his life or where he wants to go or what he wants to say.” 

__Grantaire titled his neck back with a jerk and swallowed another shot, slamming the glass on the bar top._ _

__“But I do know what I’m doing with my life!” he shouted above the music and the uproar of the bar. It was a different sort of uproar to the one from the café basement. It was louder, rowdier, more dangerous and thrilling._ _

__“What? Wasting it?”_ _

__Grantaire smiled at her. The girl understood. The girl was like him. She saw things from his perspective. Of course, he didn’t tell her about his crimes. He only told her about Enjolras. She only told him about Marius. They’d drank so much, they’d lost count. It was a good thing the girl had money. At first he thought she would be a lightweight, but she’d drank half of her beer before he could even get his ordered. She was shouty and arrogant and she wasn’t afraid to flip off guys who wolf-whistled at her and tried to peek up her dress. She was a force of nature, he realised. She wasn’t just the mousy, slightly sour-faced girl from the café who served them coffee._ _

__“We’re all wasters in this city! They call it the city of romance but that’s the biggest load of bullshit ever. The only romance people experience is unrequited, or it doesn’t last less than a week, or a night, or an hour,” she looked at Grantaire with a deep curiosity in her brown eyes. “Why do we keep going after those people? Why do we give our hearts away like they’re candy on Halloween night? Why can’t we just fall in love with a building like the tourists do? It would be a lot easier.”_ _

__Grantaire was suddenly struck by her words. She was sad. She was alone and upset. She was practically a stranger, yet he felt as though he’d known her for years. No doubt he’d seen more of her heart in that last half hour than her family had seen her whole life. He suddenly felt accepted. Warm, even. For the first time in a long while. It was probably just the booze, but the voice had gone for the moment. No-one in the bar called him Toad. The words that came out of people’s mouth were the words they actually said. It felt good to drink again, to feel the overworked parts of his brain shut down and numb. He was still a husk, but one that was less conscious of his situation. He was acknowledging his faults. He didn’t care that his bodies would wash up on the banks of the river soon. He didn’t care Enjolras hated him. It just felt good to share his perspective with someone. Although she was looking rather sombre. He shot his hand up and ordered another round. The girl grinned at him._ _

__“You’re wild!” she shrieked gleefully, shooting to her feet. “Come on, let’s go to a club! Let’s dance!”_ _

__“What about the, the shots?”_ _

__“Someone else can have them! Come on, I want to dance with you!”_ _

__She grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet. Soon they were in a club somewhere in the city he didn’t know. The world there was suddenly a blur of colour and noise, all merged into one big spectrum of crazy. Random people he didn’t know grinded against him, strangers stuck their arms in his face, twirled him, pushed him around onto other people. He was pretty sure someone put a pill on his tongue and one on the girl’s. Everyone around him was dancing. Everyone around was just like him; the lonely. The wild. The terrible. He was just another clone. A copy. But he was happy. He forgot how to talk. He only made whooping noises and gestures. He lost himself in the atmosphere. Plunged into it headlong, not caring anymore about his anger. He let his frustrations out. He jumped around, he kissed girls with cherry stalks between their teeth. He downed liquids in rainbow colours, he sang along badly to the music. He finally forgot. He forgot his name. His lefts from his rights. He forgot where he lived and what his age was. The girl dragged him from the club to various other places. They chased each other around the benches in the park. He felt the imprint of a needle batter his skin and sketch on ink. They tried to make off with someone’s car. They stole sweets from a corner shop and ate them on a fire escape. They talked about nothing and everything and motorcycles and holidays that went wrong. They laughed and they cried and for that time, they lived. They were living fast and living wild and living terribly._ _

__They ended up in Eponine’s room; a mess of heat, hands, skin and sorrow._ _

__Neither cared they cried out different names._ _

__***_ _

__Marius watched Cosette sleep in his bed. He watched the troubles leave her pretty face and delicate brow as she dozed. He wondered how long they could stay together. How long they could stay as a pair. In the years to come; who would go first? He wished it to be her. She had suffered the pains of being left alone before. She needed held, not to be the holder. He silently vowed to her that he would follow her soon._ _

__***_ _

__"I...I couldn't do it. I couldn't. I... I kept thinking about you. I just kept thinking of you and how you'd be disappointed and I couldn't..." Jehan sobbed into Courf's shirt. "I wanted it to...to...I thought. I don't know what I was thinking. I'm ugly, Courf. I'm ugly and I hated looking at myself and I could tell I was going to…to… and I knew it would only make me uglier so...so I had to. It's yours. I...I borrowed yours, I...I hope you don't...don't mind."_ _

__Courfeyrac shook his head. Jehan looked so different now. His face looked rounder. His features looked younger. He looked like a pre-pubescent twelve year old, not a university student going on nineteen who got nothing but A grades and had a group of friends who adored him and never went a day without beaming._ _

__"It's okay. We'll tell the others it's a fashion choice. I can buy you a hat."_ _

__Jehan swallowed hard. "The whole time... I just...you were there. You were begging me not to do it. In my mind. I knew it wouldn't kill me, but... I had to try, Courf. I had to... I to f-fe-"_ _

__Courfeyrac hushed him, rocked him a little in his grasp, as though he was consoling a toddler. He looked at the chestnut curls and waves on the tiled floor; thick, glossy, but ends split. He wasn't sure what was going through his mind. He didn't know how to phrase it. He didn't know if he was feeling anything. _This must be what shock is.__ _

__"I don't...I don't know what this is. What I feel..." Jehan admitted. "I don't know! I feel happy, when I see you. But. I feel afraid and, and sad and, and sick. In my chest and my stomach and I look at you and I feel like I'm drowning. I can't breathe. Courfeyrac! I can't breathe!"_ _

__Courf grabbed Jehan's wrist, creasing the fragile epidermis. He pressed their foreheads together and placed Jehan's hand on his chest, over his heart, and inhaled deeply, forcing the other boy to focus._ _

__"C'mon. Copy me. Breathe. In and out. All it is. All it is, Prouvaire. I'm right here. We’re going to work through this. Together. I’m right here."_ _

__Jehan quivered and closed his eyes, breathing shaky. He felt the water rise in his lungs, boiling, scalding hot. It filtered through the gaps in his skeleton. It swelled behind his eyes. It flooded his sinuses. It soaked his brain. He was floundering. He was helpless. He was sinking in the ocean._ _

___C'mon. C'mon, Prouvaire. I'll be your lifeboat,_ Courfeyrac thought, kissing Jehan on the cheek and holding himself there. _I'll pull you to the surface. I'll drain the salt from your skin. I'll help you breathe the air again.__ _

__Jehan took a steady, heavy breath, and exhaled his words onto Courf's lips. A whisper. Frightened, worried, burdened. But the bravest he’d ever uttered._ _

__"Courfeyrac. I think I'm in love with you."_ _

__***  
Combeferre didn't sleep. _ _

__He sat on the end of his bed and just looked at the wall that separated his and Enjolras' rooms._ _

__He bit his lip until he felt it swelling, and he sat perfectly still, perfectly stoic until dawn._ _

__***_ _

__Enjolras, in the other room, put his head in his hands._ _

__And he wept._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap. … I think I need a hug. That was emotional to write. Holy crap. And this is longest chapter so far. Nearly 11 pages on a standard word document. Holy crap. I wrote more pages of a fanfic in an hour than I have of a proper piece of original material in two days. Holy crap. Thanks for sticking with this one. Holy crap I need to lie down and just re-evaluate a lot of things.
> 
> PS- Marius' line 'Go and kill yourself, Toad' isn't actually what Marius is saying. It was supposed to be in italics and they didn't show up so you can't really tell, but it's supposed to be the voice in Grantaire's head that is talking at the end of that sentence. Hence 'Toad'. Same with the chapter in which the teacher suddenly started asking if Enjolras was Grantaire's 'Stockholm'. That was R hallucihearing, also. Just in case there was any confusion!


	9. Shards

She woke up first.

Her head was pounding and her bones ached dully as the familiar thud of a hangover settled upon her sluggish body. She rubbed her eyes until they hurt and sat up, propping herself up on her elbows. She wrapped her brown hair around her fist then tossed it over her shoulder, and became suddenly aware of her lack of clothes. She blinked as the light stung her face, filtering through the thin satin curtains, and grit her teeth as the birds out on the parapets chirped freely, clearly not giving thought to the state of her skull as the noise drilled into it like a metal spike. She glanced at the digital clock on her bedside cabinet. The lime green numbers told her it was nearly noon. That startled her awake. She was late. A fleeting moment of confusion rushed through her and chilled her blood: why hadn't her father woken her? Her mother was surely away, as always, scurrying like the rat queen she was down the alleys and by the docks and the prison searching for whatever trade she happened to have a hunger for that day, so she wouldn't care about her daughter's tardiness. Gavroche wasn't around to take over her shift either. 

She then remembered the boy on the floor. 

She wasn't sure how he'd gotten there, but he was lying on his side, oily black hair thick over his forehead, snoring gently. 

_Great, I had to pick a snorer_

He had to be in his early twenties, but he looked older. As she stooped over to steal his shirt from the bedpost and pull it over her head, she caught a good look at his face and body, legs entangled in a spare blanket. Upon closer inspection in the better light, Eponine realised that his face was ugly and his flesh fragile. His body was thin, nearly frighteningly so, as though he hadn't been introduced to a full meal in weeks. ( _why didn't I notice that before?_ ) It was evident that smoking, drinking and drugs and late nights had caused his face to age faster. There were indigo rings around his eyes and red blotches on his cheeks. There were acne scars between his eyebrows and horizontal stripes, white marks that would never tan, on his thighs. His nose was bent, his brow small, his cheeks sallow and teeth, exposed by his parted lips, were tinted yellow and fudge brown. He needed shaved and fed and the broken squint bones of his left set of fingers set in a splint. Eponine stared at him, afraid to move or get too close. There was something wrong with him. Not just his face or his limbs, but something else. Her heart sped up and she felt consumed with the urge to run. Something unsightly and unsettling seeped from his pores. 

He stirred and Eponine jumped. 

She dressed hurriedly in her own clothes, brushed her hair with her hands and threw the boy's trousers over him before he woke properly. She wrenched the curtains apart and the light streamed like a solid beam in his face. As he sat up he mumbled that name again. She only now recognised it; one of the boys from the cafe. The blonde one. Mouthful of a name. 

"Oh..." He groaned, somewhat bewildered by his position on the floor. At the sight of the girl standing by the window with her arms folded, he blushed and wriggled into the trousers, securing the belt. 

"Eponine?" He tried gingerly, letters a marbled swirl. 

"Yes." 

He sighed with visible relief. 

"Grantaire." He spoke as though he was trying the name out for the first time.

"I remember." 

Another sigh. 

"Why am I on the floor?" 

"Fell off, I guess." 

"What time is it?" 

"Nearly noon." 

"Oh, shit..." He got to his feet and caught sight of himself in a skinny mirror balancing on the wall. "Shit shit shit I missed the bus!" 

Eponine arched an eyebrow and tilted her head. "What bus?" 

"Enj- just a bus."

That name again. The way he said it made the hairs on her nape prickle and her fingers bunch up into her palm. He noticed she was standing tensely. 

"Are you okay?" Why did he care? "Did I... Was it not..."

A quick, embarrassed glance at the tousled bedsheets. Eponine shook her head. The sun shone on her skin, glowing prettily. 

"Um, no, it was.... Yeah," she fidgeted, awkward and sheepish, and she bit the inside of her cheek, pinching the skin between her teeth. 

Grantaire, that was his name, nodded and cleared his throat. 

"Good. Great, actually. Glad I..."

"Please stop talking?" 

"Okay." 

His breathing was raspy. The sound of him coughing was violent. It made her even more wary. She was staring at him, hazel eyes wide and scrutinising. It made him uncomfortable. 

Then, all of a sudden, as he saw the sun illuminate her face like a halo, his halo... 

_GOOD MORNING, TOAD. I TRUST YOU SLEPT WELL_

It was as though a bus had crashed into him, jolted him into reality, out of the haze of the Morning After. He'd disgraced his muse. That entire night was a mistake. He'd worked so hard to seem interesting and versatile and everything he thought his muse deserved to see, and he ruined it. He'd ruined everything! He felt the vacuum fill him again, the darkness dripping into his bloodstream straight from the marrow. 

The girl was watching him. Her stare. He felt like an animal in a zoo. His pulse was racing, his stomach churning, his chest heaving. He could feel his lungs straining and his mind racing. 

"Oh my god, are you having a panic attack?" Eponine asked worriedly, sounding panicked herself, and moved closer to him to take his shoulders and tried to make eye contact as Grantaire bent over with his hands on his knees. 

Then he was angry. 

He moved faster than she could have guessed and she was suddenly under him, struggling against his weight as his hands found her throat and pressed firmly into the soft skin there.

He hadn't felt the anger in so long, ever since the incident with the teacher. This time it was different. He wasn't angry because she was in the way of his Stockholm; he was angry at himself and he needed to be cleansed of his own problem. Ot was dangerously delicious, the sweet red fury changing him, transforming him into a pure animal of strength and determination. The thing inside him screamed in his head, blaming her. 

_SHE COULD HAVE STOPPED YOU. SHE ENCOURAGED YOU._

Eponine gasped and clawed at his hands. Out of the way of the window she was in the dim again, his shadow also obscuring the light from her face. 

_BREAK THE LIGHT!_

She was crying, mouth opening and closing like a fish without water, her legs kicking and thrashing, but he felt no pain from her hits or her nips. 

"Please don't scream, please please please be quiet," Grantaire pleaded, the quiver in his voice confusing him. The anger was ebbing away. Why couldn't he find the power to go through with this one? "Please!"

The force of him weakened for a moment and she sank her teeth into his hand, then wrestled him off. She went to the mirror and smashed it, bloodying her knuckles and palm as she lunged at him with a shard of glass. Grantaire retreated, panicking. He could see a sliver of his own face, ugly and twisted and contorted on the thin piece of glass. It laughed at him, tears streaming and howling and jeering. 

"Get away from me you fucking pyscho!" Eponine yelled , thrusting the shard forward. Blood dripped onto the carpet. 

"No! You don't understand, you're not like the oth-"

"Other?!" realisation dawned on her and she whirled round and flung open the window. She was about to scream when Grantaire leapt over the bed and clamped a heavy hand over her mouth. She screamed anyway, but it was dampened and muffled. He shut the window. 

"No sound." He tore the shard away from her and it sliced deeper into her hand as he did so. He felt the slick, sticky plasma on his fingers. He pressed the shard to her neck, just enough to leave a little scratch. "If you make a noise I will press harder and you will die. I don't want to hurt you, but I will. I promise. I've done it before. You don't understand, I'm not angry at you... I just... You can't say a word to anyone, understand? If you go to the police you won't make it to another morning. I will find you if you do. Even if someone comes for me I will find you first and cut out your tongue. Do you understand?" 

Eponine whimpered and he let go. The rage has faded. He could feel the thing inside him tutting, shaking its head. He felt like crying. No, he had to keep a level head. 

"Why are you doing this?" She asked in a hoarse, terrified whisper. 

"Freshen yourself up and go downstairs and go to work." 

"Who is he to you?" 

"I thought you said you understood." 

"You are destroying him."

"Downstairs. Now. I won't be here when you return." 

"Why don't you just kill me?"

"You remind me of him." 

*** 

Courfeyrac took the sheet away from the mirror in his bedroom. He studied himself for a moment, uninterested in his own features. Jehan was sitting on his bed with his back to it. Some wisps of hair had begun to grow back. 

"Jehan. Turn around," Courfeyrac urged gently, voice laden with sorrow. 

"No." 

"Jean, please." 

"I don't want to turn around." 

"Look at yourself. Please."

"Never again." 

Courfeyrac covered up the mirror again. This was his seventh failed attempt. 

*** 

_IT'S TIME TO STOP WAITING. YOU NEED TO CATCH HIM NOW. YOU NEED TO LURE HIM IN. YOU NEED THAT LIGHT MORE THAN EVER, TOAD, OR I WILL EAT YOU UP FROM THE INSIDE OUT_

*** 

-ONE WEEK LATER- 

Enjolras frowned at his reflection in the narrow mirror screwed into the inside of the right cupboard door. He looked at the clothes in there, parted the coat hangers to find his favourite red zip up hoodie, faded maroon from too much washing and that fabric softener he'd borrowed from Jehan that one time. 

_"The flowers were obviously too strong for your passion," Bossuet remarked._

He saw his old baseball jersey, hardly worn but still marked with grass stains from a run around in the park. He took it off the rail and held it against his chest. He made a mental note to ask Feuilly to come and practice batting with him again. 

He twisted around so he could see the stark white bold font on the back of his red baseball jersey that spelt out 'Enjy' - a nickname he hated. Yet, he had to admit, he had a soft spot for the jersey; a birthday present from Courf. 

He put it back in the wardrobe and ruffled his hair. It was tousled and he blew a strand out of his eyes. It was beginning to get longer again. 

Combeferre was in the living room. 

"Are you ready?" He asked. His voice was a little strained. 

Enjolras nodded. "Are you okay?" 

He meant Combeferre's stomach. It was bruised. Enjolras has seen it when he saw 'Ferre walking through to his room after a shower. It was purple and blue and turning a shady tinge of brown. It had been inflicted days ago, yet it was still as sore and raw as though it had been hurt that morning. 

"I'll be alright. You've seen worse." 

"I'm sorry... For what happened to you. I shouldn't have yelled at R like that. I didn't mean to provoke him." Enjolras shuffled uncomfortably. He'd never been fond or any good at apologising. 

They'd been avoiding the conversation topic of Grantaire ever since that night. Neither of them had seen the grumpy layabout. Some of them had begun to worry, but no one went over to his apartment. Bahorel said that Grantaire was 'working through some stuff'. What stuff, it was unknown. It almost made ENjolras feel even more on edge, not having those eyes on him all the time.

"No, you shouldn't have," Combeferre sighed. He hated the tough love act, but sometimes Enjolras needed a little bit of a wake up call. "But who am I to be living in the past? Just be nice of him today, if he turns up. Do you have everything?" 

"Courf has all the posters, I've got the banners and flags. Eponine's brother will keep people from going into the cafe. Everything's ready!" There was a childish excitement in the end of his sentence that made Combeferre warm up. It was the day of the protest and the feelings of dread were merging violently with the feelings of glee, making them both feel a bit sick, and a bit like they had stage fright. 

"Let's go!" Combeferre said and made for the door. 

Enjolras caught his arm, eyes fond.

"Thanks, 'Ferre," he said, voice thick with genuine gratitude. The tension between them was eradicated as Combeferre pulled him into a hug. Enjolras found his flat mate to be warm and secure and he buried his nose in his shoulder. Combeferre patted his back and released him. 

"C'mon. The world's waiting, O great Alexander." 

"Wait. Can you go ahead? I just need to get the flags. I'll meet you there." 

Combeferre shrugged his sure, said goodbye and left. 

Enjolras stood alone in the apartment and took a deep breath to steady his nerves. He glanced down at his satchel, taken from the sofa, and all the books and papers in there. 

_So much work... So much planning...it's worth it._

_IS IT?_

Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut and looked out the window. The light of the day, however weak was comforting. He felt less like some sort of demon was going to swallow him whole. He checked his phone, not knowing why, and Grantaire's goofy face gazed up at him. Enjolras permitted himself a half- smile. He saw a car pull up on the street and drive away again with Combeferre in it. He wondered if Combeferre truly believed in the protest. If it would work or not. He pushed those thoughts away. He had to live now. No time for doubts. The world was waiting. 

He stepped into the hallway and locked the door. He was putting the key in his pocket when he heard the door across the way open. 

Grantaire was looking at him. He was barely recognisable. He was missing the shine in his hair. There was something dead in his eyes. Under the sleeves of his fleece, goosebumps rose on Enjolras' pale skin.

"R. Are you coming to the protest?" He was aware of something off in his tone. He forced a smile . For Combeferre. 

Grantaire didn't smile back. By the way he held the door, enjolras couldn't see into the flat space. Grantaire was staring, and Enjolras realised that this must be what they mean by someone looking into your soul. Grantaire's eyes made his skin feel as though it was being flayed and he felt exposed, naked and exploited. 

"I need to talk to you," Grantaire said.

He turned and went back into his apartment. 

Enjolras followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearing the end now...


	10. Pylades Rising/Orestes Captured

Combeferre felt unsettled on the bus to the cafe. He couldn't sit still. He checked his phone for a reason he couldn't quite make sense of. His only message was from Courfeyrac making him aware of his arrival at their base with Jehan. He took a deep breath and sighed, gazing out the window and trying to relax. 

It was probably nothing. 

*** 

The inside of Grantaire's apartment was oddly tidy save a large white cloth that covered the expanse of the living area floor, as though he was proposing they do some DIY. He didn't smile as Enjolras came into the flat, walking away from the door. Grantaire stood in front of it, face stoic. 

"What is it? I have somewhere to be," Enjolras asked. "You've been acting weird lately. We've all been wondering what's up with you. Some of us are worried."

"Some."

Enjolras flinched. He stared at Grantaire, who was still staring. No, observing. Analysing. Enjolras felt his skin crawling. He cleared his throat and ran a white hand through his thick curls.

"Jesus, I'm sorry, Grantaire. I'm taking it this is all my fault that you're doing... Whatever your doing."

"That's quite selfish of you."

Another uncomfortable pause as he registered Grantaire's sudden boldness. 

"Is there other stuff going on?" Enjolras blurted, the suspicion running round and round his head, the thought inescapable and unavoidable ever since it had been mentioned. He realised the feeling was anxiety. "I, um... I'll listen to you. You took me in for a reason so if it's to tell me something, and it's something of actual importance and not some stupid ramble, then I'll listen to you."

Grantaire didn't say anything. His blue eyes were wild, but his face vacant, like a zombie; hungry but unable to express or react. He swallowed hard and abruptly the hostility left him, replaced with strange, wide-eyed concern and a confused, lopsided smile. He fidgeted from foot to foot and picked at his fingernails. Enjolras witnessed that transition with wary awe as though he'd seen a snake shed its skin. Something felt...off. Maybe Grantaire WAS taking something.

"Look, whatever's going on with you, I'm sorry and really the only advice I can give you is to get professional help. It's not right, seeing you like this , and I guess I'll try and help you but you need to help yourself first. You got yourself into it so if you fail to co-operate then you'll have to figure out how to get out of it yourself too. I won't have the others on my case all the time, guilt-tripping me into being nice to you, but this time I mean it. i'll do my best. Okay? Now, I need to be at the cafe, so are you coming or can I leave?"

He cleared his throat and made for the door but Grantaire stood in his way. Enjolras felt his breath freeze in his throat.

"You need to stay here with me."

"No I don't. Move aside."

"Please."

Enjolras hesitated. His words weren't begging or pleading or trying to persuade: Grantaire was ordering him. A frisson crawled down the length of his spine and he rolled his shoulders. Grantaire's hand was on his forearm, gripping into the fabric and creasing his hoodie. He didn't like being touched by a general rule, perhaps besides Combeferre's hugs and handshakes and the punches and pecks on the cheek Courfeyrac dealt out to everyone. Enjolras stared at his hand, noticed the bitten nails and the haggard, blistered skin around them, white from death. But there were no paint spots, not like usual. Enjolras caught a faint whiff of lemon spritz, and soon noticed it lingered like a cloud around the rest of the room. He recognised it, it was difficult to pinpoint, like an old memory. Grantaire had been disinfecting. 

Enjolras retreated cautiously, guided by Grantaire's hand to the window: the nearest source of light. That calmed him a little and he turned his head to see the view. He could see the entire landscape play out from there. He could see the school, and the church, the Eiffel Tower and the bus stop. The hum of traffic was soothing. The hubbub and clumsiness of tourists amiable. The city was beautiful; timeless yet modern, however always maintaining the hauntings of history. Enjolras felt his cares drift a bit as he gazed, and the peace that overcame his face was evident. His muscles softened, his eyes shone with a childish wonder. He was in complete awe, totally at home. In Enjolras' head, the fire stilled, turning from a violent, raging inferno to a neat, simple candle flame, like a bud of serenity and hope. The pure energy was a halo about his hair. Grantaire watched him, mesmerised by the image of his adored transfixed by something other than work and plans, and saw the Light return, and was for a moment struck with sorrow.

Enjolras snapped his head round, feeling Grantaire's eyes on him. Only now, at such close range, he saw that one eye was coloured slightly differently from the other, a subtly paler blue in the left from the right. 

"The city is stunning, isn't it?" Grantaire asked, knowing the answer already. "You can see everything from here." 

"Mmm, you're lucky. Grantaire-"

"I could watch you get on the bus every morning if I really wanted to."

"-I have to leave. The others are waiting for me."

Grantaire's grip tightened and Enjolras could feel his pulse pound against the other boy's fingertips. 

"I need to tell you something." 

***

She'd nursed her hand herself. She winced when she applied the antiseptic. She grunted with effort when she chopped the medical tape with her teeth. She hummed old nursery rhymes beneath her breath to settle herself when the nerves began to sting and burn. She told her dad she'd tripped over and fallen into the mirror but he didn't care either way. She'd looked after herself for long enough to know that. Sometimes she'd unwind the grubby bandages and peek beneath the sticky gauze and run her fingers across the healing wound. The scar would remain until the day she died. 

She saw the news reports and read the articles in papers and over heard gossipy conversations at work. The police were looking for leads on the murder cases. The first, the alley victim, had nearly been ignored; just another bar fight gone wrong. Some people at the shop that night had been questioned, but nothing had happened. She herself had been interviewed, but she hasn't known anything then. The one at the school was different. None of the students had had classes because of it, and all the staff spoken to. No one saw or remembered anyone going into that room. The CCTV footage released had just shown the blurred image of what could have easily passed as a ghost in one of those cheesy Most Haunted programmes. 

Eponine knew who it was. 

As if on reflex, her palm twinged.

She stood in front of the police station and filled her lungs. She was afraid but she was bold. She was injured but she would be kept safe. As soon as she spoke out, the police would protect her, and she would let them, so that for a short time she wouldn't have to look after herself. She couldn't let him continue, she couldn't have other people be hurt because of her cowardice. She was tempted to stay in the shadows; it wasn't up to her to squeal. But it was her duty, she reasoned.

Eponine strode into the station and the tired woman behind the desk looked up, and asked how she could be of assistance. Eponine's bottom lip did not tremble. 

"My name is Eponine Thernadier and I would like to report a crime." 

***

"Where's Enj?" Courfeyrac pulled his friend aside and leaned close, bowing his head, brow knitted with concern that wasn't as intense as Combeferre's. 

The cafe was buzzing with anxious energy as an entire cast of students mingled and bustled to and fro, finishing posters, practicing chants, going over the route of the march. The majority were beaming with youthful enthusiasm, however there were faces of distress and worry, and in corners some sceptics murmured in hushed voices their doubts and cynical views and grumbled about missing dates. Marius was handing out water and soda and exchanging smiles and polite conversation. Bahorel was stapling fliers to the walls inside and Feuilly was spray painting the exterior with the words 'Vive Le Peuples'. Bossuet, Joly and plump, cheerful Musichetta were tying flags to masts and poles and chattering with flushed cheeks, arms around one another and knees touching, giddy and in love.

Combeferre looked at his phone again. It was nearly two. He shook his head. "I don't know... He said he'd be right behind me on the bus." 

Jehan joined them with Feuilly at his side. The beanie Jehan wore was beginning to itch. His skin was blotchy, his stomach empty. Courfeyrac had realised that the idea that someone suddenly recovered from illness as soon as they got someone to hold at night, was utter bullshit. The memory of their first night pierced his heart; Jehan flinching when they touched bare skin for the first time, terrified. It made Courfeyrac's stomach churn. He forced himself back into reality. 

"Everyone's getting impatient," Feuilly reported, sweat sticking his carrot orange hair to his forehead. "We need to get moving." 

"Hold on, let us call Enj first," Courfeyrac tried and Feuilly frowned. 

"Can't we go on without him? You know that's what he'd want. Even if he wasn't here he'd like to know you still went through with it. He's worked for ages on this, to represent us as a body of intelligent people instead of animals being taught how to jump through hoops that won't even be relevant in ten years. We need to honour that, like, now." 

"Jeez, Feuilly, he's not dead!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, and Combeferre looked sick. He put his hand on the med student's shoulder to re-assure him, but locked his eyes with Jehan. "He'll be here. Phone him. You know he's a diva; he'll make a dramatic entrance soon enough." 

Someone pointed at the TV. 

"Hey, isn't that-"

***  
"Grantaire."

The dark haired boy snapped his head up, previously lost in himself. He had let go of Enjolras, whose muscles were tight. 

"Hmm?"

"What were you going to tell me?"

Grantaire smiled at him. At his hair. Just above it. He was smiling at the Light. It was finally here. It was finally in his grasp and it filled the room and it was glorious. 

"I don't know your blood type," he mused in the silence between them, a pang of melancholy in his voice. 

Enjolras looked at him strangely. 

"The fruity kind," he said after thinking for a moment, not taking his eyes off the dark haired teen who gazed forlornly out of the window at the bus stop below. Enjolras was painfully aware of the seconds ticking by. He was already late. He was going to miss the rally. 

Grantaire nodded, a half smile on his face as the new information processed. "Ah. Thought so. You always get bites in Summer." 

They marinated in tense silence once more. Enjolras was uncomfortable with this new feeling of uneasiness, and panicked at the thought of it turning into terror or worse: vulnerability. He wanted to snap but he didn't trust his voice or the sound of his own breathing. He was so wary of making a sound he feared the whirring of cogs in his brain as he devised a plan to get out and get to the cafe in one piece. Frustratedly he tried to forcefully calm his racing pulse and hope he could somehow reabsorb the sweat that dampened his hairline. He was just about to curse Combeferre for not possessing the ability to read minds when the phone in his pocket chirped. 

The horrific hostile glare in Grantaire's eyes returned and Enjolras felt the uneasiness shift into the next level. 

"Turn that off." 

Enjolras wriggled the thin black device out of his pocket and saw it was Combeferre's icon on the screen. His thumb hovered over the answer button. 

"Who is it?"

"Combeferre."

"Don't answer it."

"If I don't, he'll just leave a voicemail."

Grantaire lunged forward and grasped Enjolras' wrist and squeezed so his fingers splayed and he dropped the phone onto the white sheet on the floor. Grantaire crushed it underneath his foot, not breaking eye contact. 

Then he was on the other side of the room again. 

"What did you do that for?!" Enjolras yelled and Grantaire said nothing. He was watching the space just above his head again. 

The Light was at its dimmest when he yelled and that was frightening. Grantaire had learned, however, that this was opportunity for change. 

"They can't know you're here." 

"I don't know why I'm here!"

Grantaire inhaled deeply and for a moment resembled a small child trying to articulate his feelings to his first crush. 

"Enjolras. Listen to me. I don't want to hurt you. And I know you don't want to hurt me..." 

"You know nothing about me!" 

"I know a lot. I know what bus you get in the morning and at what time, I know your shoe size, I know what cereal you prefer, your favourite movies, where you put your iPod, who annoys you and stands in your way, what to do." 

Enjolras' blood ran cold. "What to do?" 

"Please don't be mad. Please. Please you have to understand!" 

"What did you do?!" Enjolras shouted, hoping the volume would mask the shakes that threatened to enter his voice. 

"I did it to protect you! I...I need you. More than you know. Why can't you see that?!" Grantaire cried, desperation and confused rage making his tone hoarse and his eyes wide. "I've lived across the hall for years and you've never once seen how much I... That's why I had to, to show you that I cared! To help you!" 

Enjolras swallowed hard. "Grantaire..." He whispered, and suddenly he knew, but he wasn't prepared. 

"I killed for you, Enjolras. I killed so you could live. And I will do it again."


	11. Crescendo

"You... You what?" Enjolras stammered and Grantaire marvelled; Enjolras stammering? He couldn't believe it. He felt he should have at least made a bet on that. Probably with Courfeyrac, he would've paid more. Next on the agenda was to make him squeal. The apartment was still, but bristled with static and tension. Metal rods would have sparked. Dry wood would have combusted. Enjolras didn't want to breathe. His blood felt like tar in his veins. His stomach felt as though it was filled with stones and he was leaning over a well and-

"Please, please don't be mad."

"Mad?! You're the mad one!" Enjolras' usually sweet and steady voice was trembling with panic, desperate to point the finger and dish out the blame, but he had no evidence except this confession. It didn't feel like a real admittance, however. Grantaire wasn't capable of that... Grantaire wasn't malevolent , Grantaire wasn't strong enough, morally, he couldn't say physically for sure. Grantaire was just... The guy across the hall who got on the bus and told dirty jokes and snuck liquor into the Musain and drew sometimes and... 

Enjolras realised he didn't know much about Grantaire at all.

"Mad for you, yes!" Grantaire was smiling as he continued, as though coaxing Enjolras into acceptance of his feelings. He tried to get closer to Enjolras but he jerked away, staring in horror. His blue eyes were stark with betrayal and pain. 

"You're sick...sick in the head!"

"No! All those who bothered you, who stood in your way, you are the ones who were sick. I cleared the path for you. So you could see how much you mean to me." 

Enjolras was confused and scared and angry. His hand settled on the wall to steady himself. He tottered on the white tarp and the smell of lemon stung his philtrum, gracing beyond his bowed lips and down his mouth. Suddenly, he understood, and his understanding made his body turn rigid and his conscience scream until his temples hurt.

"The guy from the basement who called me a hypocrite?" He breathed as though uttering a dark curse. His eyes suddenly sharpened and he swore he could see a shadow envelop Grantaire, perch on his shoulder, reach its dangerous tentacles up his nostrils and through his pores and beneath his clothes. 

Grantaire nodded excitedly, lungs breathless and eager to fill with that bright yellow glow. "You aren't that. You aren't! You aren't anything he said. You aren't anything anyone says except for me, because only I tell you the truth. Everyone else hides behind lies and you know it. Why would I lie to you? Some days I had my doubts, I'll admit, and I wanted to march right over to your apartment and give you a right thrash and I wanted to agree with the guy from the basement but you. You burn bright. I'd be an idiot to rob the world of that." 

Enjolras felt the colour drain from his face. He felt the chill settle in his bones. He felt his skin prickle with bumps as the hair stood on the nape of his neck. He felt as though he had swallowed sand and it had clogged his throat. "The professor who took my phone...?" 

Grantaire laughed. "Yes! I thought you would realise eventually! Can't you see how much I've cared? Enjolras..." 

"Stay away from me." 

"What? No."

"I'll call the police!"

Grantaire folded his arms and shot him a look. It was cocky, knowing. Grantaire had orchestrated everything it seemed and Enjolras quickly knew he had limited options for escape and, or, survival. "Yeah? With what?" 

Enjolras glanced at his phone lying broken on the floor. He looked out of the window and wondered how far the drop was. His feet made shuffling sounds on the tarp. He chewed on his tongue. He imagined himself wrestling past Grantaire and escaping out the window, hitting the ground but getting up to run again. He imagined Courfeyrac and Combeferre bursting through the doors any moment now and taking the insane neighbour down with taser guns and smug quips. Hell, he even imagined Marius swinging his baseball bat, crashing through the roof and knocking him off of his feet. For a moment, Enjolras held his breath as though he was waiting for that to happen. Of course, it did not. He was unprotected and trapped. He was alone.

Achilles faced Patroclus and for once, the mortal boy was leading the charge. 

***

"Eponine?" Marius jumped at the touch of her bandaged hand on his waist and spun round to see her, moving away from the group of students he was chatting with. He saw Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta peer over his way, inquisitive. Her olive coloured cheeks were wet with tears and she was quivering. She had her chestnut brown cardigan bunched in one fist. A surge of concern filled Marius. "Eponine, what's wrong? What happened? Where have you been?" He couldn't stop the myriad of questions; Eponine hadn't shown her face at the cafe for a while. He saw her hand and held it, smoothing his fingers over the knuckles gently, like he had seen Joly do. "How did you hurt your hand?" 

Eponine didn't have much time to explain when Courfeyrac came over, his brow slick with sweat and glancing over at Combeferre and Jehan every second moment with unease. The other two boys were standing nervously; Jehan's fingers twitched and went to hold Combeferre's sleeve, wishing it was Courfeyrac's hand or his tousled curls. The sight of him caused the familiar stir of anxiety pool in Courfeyrac's belly. 

"Right. Marius. You're in charge."

"Courf, wait, Eponine-" Marius tried, but Courfeyrac shook his head. Everyone was staring at him, expectant. He looked quickly at Eponine who was biting down so hard on her bottom lip, it had turned white. She obviously had something to say, but Courfeyrac's dominating voice was preventing her.

"Marius, there's no time! Enjolras isn't here and if we don't get into gear soon, we're going to look like complete idiots!" Courfeyrac grabbed his sometimes-flatmate's shoulders and fixed him with a determined and trusting stare. "Pontmercy, this is your time to shine." 

"But I'm not like Enjolras, I can't!" 

"Yes you can. You are just as brave and dorky as he is. You might not have as great hair but it'll do." 

"But our political views-"

Courfeyrac shook him. "This isn't about that! You are here, and you support us more or less, yeah?" 

Marius scanned the crowd in the cafe. Feuilly was stained with paint fresh from a spray can, sharp eyes stark against his orange hair. Bahorel's fists were clenched. They were irritated, anxious, buzzing like annoyed bees, and formed a colony like one, itching to move and frustrated as to why they were not. Nearly a fifty pairs of eyes watches him with baited breath, and Marius felt that they were more than prepared to strike him through the stomach with their flagpoles should he give the wrong answer, or back down. He was trembling a little; he was Marius Pontmercy, he knew he was welcomed, but he also knew he was the butt of the joke, he knew the song well: the parody of Sandra Dee. Now was his chance. He swallowed hard and caught the pale green-blue of Courfeyrac's eyes, the pupils of which almost seemed to vanish when they were exposed to the light.

"Yeah..."

"Great! All you need to do is stand in the front, put on your best Enjolras voice and shout about how unfair everything is," Courfeyrac smiled, genuine. "Come on, Marius." 

"I'm not Enjolras!"

Courfeyrac's hand slid up to his jaw, tilting his head upwards, thumb riding the lump in his throat as he gulped. "No, you're Marius." 

Marius flinched back from his overly feely friend and cleared his throat. 

"Why aren't you doing it? Or Combeferre? He calls him 'The Guide'." Marius saw something flash in Combeferre's eye and he took a breath. "Where are you going?" 

"We're going to find Enjolras," Combeferre explained, his legs swallowing up the steps between them and leaning close to the younger boy, hissing in his ear. "Jehan will stay here, as will the others. They will keep you right." 

"Alright. I'll do it," Courfeyrac grappled him into a hug and Marius pushed him off. "But, do you know where he is?" Marius challenged, but couldn't hide the concern in his own voice. Enjolras tended to frighten and unnerve him, but he didn't consider him any less than a friend. 

Combeferre did not. Neither did Courfeyrac. 

Eponine spoke then, gesturing to the television on the wall and the boys turned to look at it. It was the news, and it was breaking. Combeferre's cheeks paled. Her voice was steady. 

"Grantaire has Enjolras." 

***

"Enjolras..." Grantaire dragged out the final slurred syllable, the name clumsy and awkward in his mouth. That bothered him. "Kinda old fashioned, isn't it?"

"Nineteenth century," Enjolras explained grimly, having learned to just go along with it instead of getting quick with his tongue and therefore possibly losing it. "My mother recognised it was a time of courage." 

"You never talk about your family." 

"I don't want to."

"Maybe I want you to."

Grantaire circled him, eyeing him up and down like a specimen in a zoo. He had fetched pots of paint from a cupboard beneath the sink and was going about setting them up on the edges of the tarp. He stuffed several paintbrushes in his back pocket. 

"Grantaire..."

Grantaire shivered visibly. He smirked. "I love the way you say my name." 

Enjolras opened his mouth to retort, but Grantaire spun on his heel and closed up the space between them, his lips a hair breadth from his neighbour's. Enjolras held his gaze bravely. 

"Can... Can I paint you?" Grantaire asked shyly, eyes glittering with anticipation. "I mean, I've painted you before, but you don't have to look at those if it would make you uncomfortable. But... A live model!"

Enjolras felt his muscles pull his head downwards and he was nodding, despite the screams and wails of his conscience. 

Grantaire's eyes lit up. He whipped a brush from his back pocket and stuck it in his mouth. He considered Enjolras with an expert eye, squinting one slightly. Enjolras felt like one of the moths Combeferre inspected, pinned to a cork board. 

He then took off Enjolras' hoodie and tossed it aside. Every tooth the zip went by was another noise, another match struck. Enjolras' bare arms tingled, suddenly exposed. Then, he thumbed the collar of his shirt and plucked apart some of the buttons one by one, and his blonde model winced at the sound and sensation of each coming loose. His breath shuddered in his torso. He thought about over powering Grantaire, shoving him over and making for the door. But that was foolish. He was dealing with a walking, talking, plotting grenade. 

Grantaire rested the very tips of his fingers on Enjolras' collarbone as the shirt came away, gazing in awe at the fine marble that it had concealed. It seemed so fragile, so creamy, probably so easily bruised as a peach. Enjolras caught his breath between his teeth and tried to clear his throat, but his captor seized the bulge there and he nearly choked.

"Have I ever told you," Grantaire's voice was little more than a gruff whisper. "How much I like this?" 

Grantaire traced the line from his Adam's Apple, demonstrating where 'this was', down his stomach and hovered mere millimetres below his navel. Grantaire felt heat, and the fine fuzz of short hair, and wrenched his hand away quickly. He glanced into Enjolras' eye and the blonde saw an unsettling glint of mischief cross his. The belt was next, and soon, with purposeful slowness, Grantaire peeled off Enjolras' shoes, socks and trousers. He stood back, then, and just drank in the sight of his beloved Stockholm standing shivering in black boxers, exposed and vulnerable. Enjolras' stare was hard, accusing and determined, full of loathing. Grantaire merely smiled gently at him: he was just a little testy, he would settle down soon. 

He went to the paint tubs and cracked them open. Choosing his colour carefully -"let's start with red, yeah?"- he dipped in the brush and stroked it across Enjolras' shoulder and down the length of his arm. The paint was cold and wet and sticky and it took courage not to jerk away. Grantaire was watching his model closely, speculating. Enjolras kept his head up and his eyes forward, unblinking, like a soldier. Grantaire jabbed him in the ribs with the paintbrush. 

"Eyes on me."

Enjolras' eyes burned. Grantaire loved seeing that, it was then he saw the halo of light envelop him. He darted to the yellow pot of paint and hesitated. He narrowed his eyes and stuck his tongue in his cheek. Enjolras watched as he plunged his hands into the paint and then those hands were on him. 

They roamed, slicking his chest and thighs and back. Grantaire gripped into his waist and covered him with handprints as though staking a claim on his possession. Enjolras bit into his lip as the wet clammy hands palmed and grabbed at him, smoothing over the ridges of his spine and over his ribs. Grantaire was muttering under his breath, trapped in a trance. 

"Say my name," Grantaire said in his ear, and when Enjolras obliged, he grinned. 

He painted the blonde's cheeks green, cradled his face and dragging his fingers across his jaw and over his eyelids. He sank to his knees and smeared Enjolras' with blue. Enjolras couldn't help but breathe out Grantaire's name, a gentle cry for help that the painter took as a sign of pleasure. He glanced up quickly, surprised. 

Grantaire's face was inches from Enjolras' as he rose. Enjolras stared at the space between his eyes and tried not to tremble as Grantaire's hands, wet and cold with paint, drifted idly down his bare arms and hips. Grantaire pressed closer and caught a gasp in his mouth as he felt the throb of Enjolras' heart through his t-shirt. Then his hands were grooming the model's hair, soaking in every glimpse of marble skin so up close, so intimate. The flecks of gold in his irises, the sweet heat of his breath tickling the curve of Grantaire's lips, drawing him in. 

Enjolras was submissive now; there was no stopping Grantaire from becoming the dominant one and dictating the situation for once. Enjolras observed with his stomach in his throat the dilation of Grantaire's pupils as he leaned in, achingly slow, so steady that Enjolras' skin began to burn and shriek and plead. Foreheads together, then noses, then the hands in his hair tightening, tightening so he couldn't flinch away, and finally. 

Enjolras' mouth tasted faintly of acrylic. The warmth and wetness of his lips, already plump and red, was like pure nectar. His skin cracked from the paint, blood surging to his face, flushing as hot as a fire. The life energy of him was ambrosia, and Grantaire felt the light seep into him. Grantaire's tongue was flavoured with ash and Enjolras couldn't help but whimper, from nothing but panic and displeasure. 

Grantaire broke away from him quickly and saw the frantic terror in his model's eyes. Guilt washed over him and he sighed. 

"I can't..." He breathed. "Not to you. I can't... Dishonour you in that way." _No matter how much I want to. No matter how much I wish to see you squirm under my touch. No matter how badly I want to hear you yelp and howl for mercy when you're close_

Enjolras visibly sagged with relief. His head was spinning so fast he could barely think and his stomach turned over and over. His chest was heaving, breaths coming in choked pants and spots of black shimmered in the corners of his vision. The tension was getting too high. His muscles couldn't take much more. He wanted to scream "You're sick! You're twisted! I hate you!" But that wouldn't work. He was afraid of Grantaire. He reeled. He was going to pass out if this continued. The blood in his head ran down into his ankles. 

He had to say something. Something to buy him some time, to regain control. Something Grantaire would want to hear, that would make him stop in his tracks. 

He had an idea. 

It was dangerous and risky and... What if it didn't work? He had to try. It made him want to vomit but he had to do it. 

"Grantaire," Enjolras said suddenly. And then, without a single quiver or fault in his voice he continued to say: "I-"


	12. Diminuendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How long has it been?  
> I am so /so/ sorry...

"-Love you." 

Courfeyrac had been meaning to say that for some time, and figured that as he was away to run into a life or death situation, this was as great a time as any. 

He meant it. Every letter. It tugged at his heart to see Jehan tug at the beanie that covered the stubble on his scalp, see his little finger curl shyly and his front teeth nibble at his bottom lip, but made it swell to see him smile. See the sun break out across his eyes and mouth and dawn was aglow across his features. Courfeyrac was breathing irregularly, suddenly frightened but energised and alive. _This is what it feels like, then. Dear, God, please let everyone feel this at some point. They don't know what they're missing._

Jehan was struck with surprise and his eyes widened. He glanced over each shoulder, anxious as to who was listening, suddenly bashful. But they, the others, were too busy staring up at the images on the small television mounted on a tiny shelf in the wall, hanging on to every word reported by the newswoman like flies stuck in honey. Some mouths were gaped open like horrified fish. Others clapped their hands to their faces and gasped. The broke into an uproar of terror and concern and blame. He heard Combeferre roar out, voice booming as he demanded the report to be turned off and shoved Marius into the crowd, before turning to Eponine who was remaining remarkably strong, and urged her to see a doctor about her hand, and that she didn't have to worry about Grantaire coming to harm her anymore. She shuddered as the bad of his thumb dragged across her knuckles and she nodded slowly, chin trembling.

Jehan just nodded, dumbfounded. He felt the electricity in his body crackle and his heart thudded hard, his stomach growing weak. He felt as though simultaneously, the world had been dropped upon his shoulders and a massive relief lifted from his chest. He looked as though he might cry. He wanted to rush forward and hold Courf and sob and say it back. But not right then. Their friend was in trouble. They both knew that. They both knew they could wait for one another a few hours more. 

Courfeyrac was gone in the crowd as swift as a fish in a river, chasing after Combeferre out the back way. 

Outside they could hear the noises of the reporters and the police sirens and the premature chants of students who had only heard about the protest that morning on Facebook and either fancied a day out of lessons or thought it would make them look good to their sociology professors. 

"We need to go to the police. Now," Combeferre said but Courfeyrac disagreed. 

"There's no time for that! We have to go over to R's ourselves; the cops might be too late!" Courfeyrac's grip was tight on his arm. 

"We don't know how unpredictable he is. We might get hurt!" 

"Who cares?!"

"I care!" 

"But Enjolras-"

Combeferre grit his teeth and Courfeyrac could see tears, hot and salty and angry in the corners of his eyes, and soon Courfeyrac felt them too. He balled his fists but couldn't bite his tongue. 

"He's your best friend, Combeferre! Are you going to be so selfish that you let him get hurt?"

"I'm just trying to minimize on casualties as much as possible!" Combeferre shouted, a heartbreaking edge to his voice, the only solid foundation there was left on the verge of cracking. "You think I don't want him to be okay? For all we know, because of all this time wasted arguing, he could be lying dead in his own blood by now! Of course I care about him, I am not selfish, I just don't want you to get hurt either! You... You have someone to go back to. I'd never be able to live with myself if you couldn't." 

Courfeyrac swallowed hard and Combeferre brushed a harsh hand across his cheek to wipe away tears. Courfeyrac fished a ragged handkerchief put of his pocket and offered it, and smiled as Combeferre scoffed at its poor condition. 

"Now is probably not the greatest time to have a moment," Combeferre muttered but Courfeyrac was already sprinting the opposite way. Combeferre reached into his pocket and called 999.

*** 

It was said with such confidence, such unyielding conviction, a shiver snaked down Grantaire’s spine and for a moment he wanted to believe it so much. His heart somersaulted and he turned slowly staring at the boy who was trying his hardest to stay on his feet, who was stooped slightly, elbows resting on his knees but head up and high as it always was. His eyes were pleading, the blue straining, trying not to ignite, but his mouth was just a line. He was patient. Grantaire watched, overwhelmed, feeling ill. The sun cast a pinkish glow over Enjolras’ face and suddenly he looked so fragile. Neither of them said anything else for a long time. Grantaire gulped and took a step backwards.

“You don’t mean that. No… You don’t do things by halves. If you loved me, you would have shown me long ago. You would have written to me, spoken to me. You wouldn’t have hidden like me! No!”

He was right. The words on Enjolras tongue tasted as bitter and as foul as the paint that was drying around his mouth. He swallowed his pride and continued. It felt like swallowing blades.

“Yes.” Enjolras’ stomach churned. “All that ignoring, all those cold shoulders. It’s just because I was afraid. I didn’t know what those feelings meant, I didn’t know how to act on them. I’ve never…” he hesitated. “I didn’t know if they were true. But they are. You frightened me, R, with your power and drive. I should never have been frightened of you, I know that now. Please, understand.”

Grantaire stared at him. Was it true? All this time? 

“I don’t believe you.”

“What can I do to show you I…I mean it?” Enjolras’ head was spinning and pounding and he was sweating, but buying his time well. 

Grantaire thought for a moment. 

“Forgive me. That’s what you have to do.” Grantaire said and Enjolras stood up straight again.

“You killed people. You admitted it.” At this, Grantaire made no motion to deny it. “You have to turn yourself in. I’ll still be here, waiting for you when you return, don’t worry! I will visit you!”

“What are you saying?! That’s betrayal! After all the work I did for you?!” Grantaire was yelling as loud as he could because he could feel something rotting and wasting away inside of him. He felt incomplete. He was feeling his insides eat away at him and he realized he was losing, he was dying. 

Enjolras barked, suddenly, a dog that was tired of being petted. He jumped to his feet and moved closer, braver. “Why did you do it, Grantaire? Why? Tell me so I can understand!”

Grantaire shrank away from the volume of his beloved’s voice; confused and scared. “I got rid of the people in your way…”

The blonde’s rage surrounded him in an aura of red, power and blood and fury. His plan had gone slightly wrong, but he had found a weak spot, and gone in for the kill. “There was never anyone in my way except from you!”

The pronoun was like a rain of bullets through Grantaire and he stared at the accusing finger and the bared teeth Enjolras had directed at him, now leaning over him like a strict headmaster or an abusive father; blaming, harming with words made of platinum and rusted razors and his golden hair framing his face. He inhaled the sharp scent of disinfectant which mingled with the sickly smell of paint. He listened to the ragged breathing of Enjolras, the slight wheeze as he inhaled, and the sound of the distant sirens outside. There were hurried footsteps striking the pavement in rhythm, getting closer. He was suddenly aware of himself, as though he had exited the host body he knew and was standing inspecting it from a different perspective; his legs, his body, his heart and the cursed blood that coursed through him, and suddenly he was unsure and uncertain. He blinked, feeling the different dimensions work through him, and he looked at Enjolras, and it was like looking at him for the first time. 

There was no light there. 

There had never been a halo around the boy, never a light, never a voice. There was never anything except him, Grantaire. Just a lonely little toad, desperate for attention. A stupid, foolish toad, worth nothing to anybody. Grantaire’s spirit sank, and he understood, then.

“If you had talked to me like a normal person none of this would have happened. We could have been friends. But this…? I don’t understand you,” Enjolras spat, moving away again, letting Grantaire stand, and maybe that was the worst thing he could have said at all.

**

Combeferre had caught up with Courfeyrac and they were running, out of breath, but panicking. The street whistled by and they approached the apartment building. It loomed over the pair of them and it was like a fortress.

“I can hear the police!” Courfeyrac shouted.

“Same. Quick, up the stairs, we don’t have much time.”

“Did you bring a weapon?”

“Did you?”

Neither of them nodded.

**

Enjolras had retreated to the other side of the room, fully re-energized, or just running on anger and adrenaline. He was trembling, and he felt as though he would snap into bits if he was ever so much as brushed lightly against. He was terrified. But he noticed that something had changed in Grantaire’s expression. He looked as though he had…given up. Enjolras sucked air through his teeth and balled his fists so tight into his hand he left imprints. Now he thought about it, Grantaire had never seemed like a threat; if anything he saw potential. However, it almost seemed to make sense. Grantaire’s obsession had corrupted himself. Isn’t that what Enjolras’ passion for the cause done to him, too? 

Enjolras nearly smirked. Two sides to the same coin, you and I. 

Grantaire, who had crouched and sank to his heels, gripping his knees, got up. There was no emotion on his face, no tremor in his hands as he walked steadily to a drawer in the kitchen and selected a knife from its compartment that separated it from the forks. Enjolras flinched and his eyes darted around the surrounding space for a weapon. Nothing but paint canisters. 

Grantaire knew now. He knew the most obvious thing and he wanted to laugh at himself for it. He wanted to laugh at everything. He wanted to laugh at the naivety of Enjolras and his lieutenants and their cause- so ridiculous and petty. He wanted to laugh at his own mind for getting the better of him. He wanted to laugh at Cosette because her boyfriend was way too low a standard for her, but then what did he know? He wanted to laugh and laugh until his cheeks hurt and his sides ached, because he hadn’t laughed in such a long time, and life around him was funny. 

He advanced towards the blonde boy, and there was an amused smile across his mouth. The blade glinted in the sun and Enjolras’ lungs shuddered. Grantaire grabbed his hand and turned it, exposing the delicate network of veins twisting beneath the paper-thin, delicate skin of Enjolras’ wrist. He imagined its cold body against his throat, the almost impossible to feel tip slice into him, the contrastingly warm blood seep out and he wasn’t ready. 

**

Combeferre and Courfeyrac raced up the stairs. They could hear arguing, they could hear Enjolras. Their feet pounded the metal stairs.

Pound pound pound.

Faster faster faster.

**

Grantaire pressed the handle of the knife in Enjolras’ palm and closed his fingers around it.

“No one was getting in your way but me.”

**

Pound pound pound.

Faster faster faster.

**

Enjolras stared at him, dumbstruck and suspicion mounting, fear muddling in his stomach. There was panic in his chest, but at the same time a calm peace. The blade was awkward in his grasp and Grantaire stepped before the point. 

“Enjolras?” Grantaire’s expression was delicate, yet wrought with pain in every crease and every dent. His tone was polite. “Without me, you will excel. You will no longer face any obstacle. It's not fair if I stay. Let me die for you?”

**

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac and Combeferre burst through the door, and recoiled at the scene they saw before them. Courfeyrac paled and gripped the doorframe for support.

Combeferre raced over to Enjolras who was stooped in a pool of scarlet, his hands trembling, his mouth screaming and limbs thrashing as his trusted guide used all of his strength to drag him away. 

“NO! I SAID NO!”

Neither Courfeyrac nor Combeferre would know what he meant until a few days later.

The final flutters of breath vanished and the Toad looked up at the light, and died.


	13. Epilogue: Semicolon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter.

The funeral was a week later. They all turned up, out of politeness. Some cried, because Grantaire hadn’t always been bad. Misguided, Jehan had muttered, plucking absently at the newly growing hair on his scalp. Others just folded their arms across their chests and held a grudge. It didn’t rain. It was quite a nice day, actually. It was over quick. Grantaire was buried in the earth and they moved on without so much as leaving a flower by the headstone. Courfeyrac was back to making bad jokes hours later in the café. 

Enjolras could wash away the blood and paint from his skin but couldn’t wash out the grime he felt on his tongue, in between his teeth, in his bones. He wanted to shed his skin like a snake and just start afresh. He would stand in front of the mirror and stare at himself until Combeferre took his hand and pulled him close, but even then, Enjolras could still see himself over ‘Ferre’s shoulder. His eyes were glazed. He would come home from school and stare at the adjacent apartment and Combeferre couldn’t place the expression on his flatmate’s face. It was odd, quiet. Unsettling. Combeferre wasn’t sure how to feel himself, so chose not to feel at all. Regard the situation as upsetting and carry on as normal.

 

***

They had lost the protest. Some of their friends had been arrested. Bahorel had blamed Marius but Courfeyrac defended him. There wasn’t anyone to blame. They’d just start again. Simple as. This was an opportunity to start new. So they tidied up their quarters, binned their old fliers, folded up the flags, and began to write new speeches. One of the only problems was that Enjolras had lost some of his fire. He hadn’t bought a newspaper in days. 

 

***

Courfeyrac and Jehan nestled into one another on the sheets of their bed, Courf running his hands along the new hair Jehan was maintaining and kissing his forehead. They were getting there. Baby steps, Jehan, baby steps. They wrote their own poems in the middle of the night in the form of delicate touches, gasped breaths and hushed giggles. Their apartment smelt of daffodils soon enough and they clasped hands under the table at meetings, and the gang rolled their eyes at them and their annoyingly, sickeningly perfect love.

“But we aren’t perfect, are we?” 

 

***

Eponine made her friends coffee and was taking her meds the hospital had given her. She was also keeping up with her therapy sessions. They were going well. Her dad had given her some extra freedoms to help jazz up the café. They were going to install one of those old nostalgic arcade games like Space Invaders. Feuilly also offered to start up an arts and crafts class every Thursday. Gavroche came home again and attended school but Eponine still gave him piggy-backs even when he got a bit heavier.

***

 

Marius and Cosette remained incredibly cute, and incredibly sunny, with Cosette radiating positivity like she was an energy source, and she never shone as bright as she did on the day Marius took her to her favourite gardens and got down on one knee.

 

***

The school held a special assembly with guest speakers from the police and councillors offering advice and guidance for those who needed it. Nobody really paid attention. The nine friends felt exposed, under scrutiny. _You knew him. You could have stopped him. All of you. Any of you._

***

Enjolras slipped out one night and headed to the graveyard. He had twisted the small red bandana in his hand so much his sweat was threatening to make the colour run. He found Grantaire’s headstone and stared at the two dates etched into the marble. He wondered if his family cried over him. He wondered if Grantaire really had any family. _I guess you were his family._

Enjolras had refused therapy. He didn’t want his head to be messed with, poked and prodded by some stranger. He didn’t trust them. He wasn’t sure who he trusted anymore. He thought what R would think of him now, kneeling in the damp grass by this inanimate piece of rock. Would he be painted now?

_Since when did you last start calling him ‘R’?_

He couldn’t help but feel incomplete. _It’s just the shock. You’ll get over it._ But Grantaire had died for him. The stupid idiot thought he was doing a service. Enjolras shook his head. He wasn’t worth dying for. He didn’t understand much about Grantaire’s head anymore.

Unwinding the red piece of fabric from his hands, Enjolras draped it over the headstone and bit his lip until it stung. 

His mobile vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out, unlocked it, and blinked at the glaring light from the screen. He hadn’t changed the wallpaper. Grantaire’s face beamed up at him; that stupid smile with a thumbs up. You wouldn’t have known he’d just committed murder.

Enjolras stayed like that, standing over the grave in the dark feeling like a burst bulb, exhausted of everything, and his only light was from his phone screen and Grantaire’s smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah! I am so sorry this has taken so long to complete. Ah well, better late than never. That's it! All over! Hope you enjoyed it and a major thank you to all who did fan art for the piece; you are all super-cuties :3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Psst, head on over to gnamf on tumblr to see some awesome fan-art! (Thanks again for that, so cool of you :D )


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